FATHER  AND  SON 

BIOGRAPHICAL  RECOLLECTIONS 


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FATHER    AND    SON 


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FATHER    AND    SON 

BIOGRAPHICAL  RECOLLECTIONS 


BY 

EDMUND   GOSSE 


'  Der  Glaube  ist  wie  die  Liebe:  er  lasst  sich  nicht 
erzwingen." 

Schopenhauer 


FOURTH    EDITION 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1908 


Copyright  1907  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNERS  SONS 


Published  October,  1907 


PREFACE 

At  the  present  hour,  when  fiction  takes  forms 
so  ingenious  and  so  specious,  it  is  perhaps  neces- 
sary to  say  that  the  following  narrative,  in  all  its 
parts,  and  so  far  as  the  punctilious  attention  of 
the  writer  has  been  able  to  keep  it  so,  is  scru- 
pulously true.  If  it  were  not  true,  in  this  strict 
sense,  to  publish  it  would  be  to  trifle  with  all 
those  who  may  be  induced  to  read  it.  It  is  offered 
to  them  as  a  document,  as  a  record  of  educational 
and  religious  conditions  which,  having  passed 
away,  will  never  return.  In  this  respect,  as  the 
diagnosis  of  a  dying  Puritanism,  it  is  hoped  that 
the  narrative  will  not  be  altogether  without  sig- 
nificance. 

It  offers,  too,  in  a  subsidiary  sense,  a  study  of 
the  development  of  moral  and  intellectual  ideas 
during  the  progress  of  infancy.  These  have  been 
closely  and  conscientiously  noted,  and  may  have 
some  value  in  consequence  of  the  unusual  con- 
ditions in  which  they  were  produced.    The  au- 


PREFACE 

thor  has  observed  that  those  who  have  written 
about  the  facts  of  their  own  childhood  have  usu- 
ally delayed  to  note  them  down  until  age  has 
dimmed  their  recollections.  Perhaps  an  even 
more  common  fault  in  such  autobiographies  is  that 
they  are  sentimental,  and  are  falsified  by  self- 
admiration  and  self-pity.  The  writer  of  these 
recollections  has  thought  that  if  the  examination 
of  his  earliest  years  was  to  be  undertaken  at  all, 
it  should  be  attempted  while  his  memory  is  still 
perfectly  vivid  and  while  he  is  still  unbiased  by 
the  forgetfulness  or  the  sensibility  of  advancing 
years. 

At  one  point  only  has  there  been  any  tamper- 
ing with  precise  fact.  It  is  believed  that,  with  the 
exception  of  the  son,  there  is  but  one  person 
mentioned  in  this  book  who  is  still  alive.  Never- 
theless, it  has  been  thought  well,  in  order  to  avoid 
any  appearance  of  offence,  to  alter  the  majority  of 
the  proper  names  of  the  private  persons  spoken  of. 

As  regards  the  anonymous  writer  himself, 
whether  the  reader  does  or  does  not  recognise 
an  old  acquaintance,  occasionally  met  with  in 
quite  other  fields,  is  a  matter  of  no  importance. 
Here  no  effort  has  been  made  to  conceal  or  to 
identify. 

It  is  not  usual,  perhaps,  that  the  narrative  of 
a   spiritual   struggle   should   mingle   merriment 

vi 


PREFACE 

and  humour  with  a  discussion  of  the  most  solemn 
subjects.  It  has,  however,  been  inevitable  that 
they  should  be  so  mingled  in  this  narrative.  It 
is  true  that  most  funny  books  try  to  be  funny 
throughout,  while  theology  is  scandalised  if  it 
awakens  a  single  smile.  But  life  is  not  consti- 
tuted thus,  and  this  book  is  nothing  if  it  is  not 
a  genuine  slice  of  life.  There  was  an  extraor- 
dinary mixture  of  comedy  and  tragedy  in  the  situ- 
ation which  is  here  described,  and  those  who  are 
affected  by  the  pathos  of  it  will  not  need  to  have 
it  explained  to  them  that  the  comedy  was  super- 
ficial and  the  tragedy  essential. 

September,  1907. 


vu 


CHAPTER  I 

This  book  is  the  record  of  a  struggle  between  two 
temperaments,  two  consciences  and  almost  two 
epochs.  It  ended,  as  was  inevitable,  in  disruption. 
Of  the  two  human  beings  here  described,  one  was 
born  to  fly  backward,  the  other  could  not  help 
being  carried  forward.  There  came  a  time  when 
neither  spoke  the  same  language  as  the  other,  or 
encompassed  the  same  hopes,  or  was  fortified  by 
the  same  desires.  But,  at  least,  it  is  some  conso- 
lation to  the  survivor,  that  neither,  to  the  very 
last  hour,  ceased  to  respect  the  other,  or  to  regard 
him  with  a  sad  indulgence.  The  affection  of  these 
two  persons  was  assailed  by  forces  in  comparison 
with  which  the  changes  that  health  or  fortune  or 
place  introduce  are  as  nothing.  It  is  a  mournful 
satisfaction,  but  yet  a  satisfaction,  that  they  were 
both  of  them  able  to  obey  the  law  which  says 
that  ties  of  close  family  relationship  must  be  hon- 
oured and  sustained.  Had  it  not  been  so,  this 
story  would  never  have  been  told. 

1 


FATHER   AND   SON 

The  struggle  began  soon,  yet  of  course  it  did 
not  begin  in  early  infancy.  But  to  familiarise  my 
readers  with  the  conditions  of  the  two  persons 
(which  were  unusual)  and  with  the  outlines  of 
their  temperaments  (which  were,  perhaps  innate- 
ly, antagonistic),  it  is  needful  to  open  with  some 
account  of  all  that  I  can  truly  and  independently 
recollect,  as  well  as  with  some  statements  which 
are,  as  will  be  obvious,  due  to  household  tradition. 

My  parents  were  poor  gentlefolks;  not  young; 
solitary,  sensitive  and,  although  they  did  not  know 
it,  proud.  They  both  belonged  to  what  is  called 
the  Middle  Class,  and  there  was  this  further  re- 
semblance between  them  that  they  each  descended 
from  families  which  had  been  more  than  well-to- 
do  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  had  gradually 
sunken  in  fortune.  In  both  houses  there  had  been 
a  decay  of  energy  which  had  led  to  decay  in  wealth. 
In  the  case  of  my  Father's  family  it  had  been 
a  slow  decline;  in  that  of  my  Mother's,  it  had 
been  rapid.  My  maternal  grandfather  was  born 
wealthy,  and  in  the  opening  years  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  immediately  after  his  marriage, 
he  bought  a  little  estate  in  North  Wales,  on  the 
slopes  of  Snowdon.  Here  he  seems  to  have  lived 
in  a  pretentious  way,  keeping  a  pack  of  hounds 
and  entertaining  on  an  extravagant  scale.  He 
had  a  wife  who  encouraged  him  in  this  vivid  life, 

2 


FATHER   AND   SON 

and  three  children,  my  Mother  and  her  two 
brothers.  His  best  trait  was  his  devotion  to  the 
education  of  his  children,  in  which  he  proclaimed 
himself  a  disciple  of  Rousseau.  But  he  can 
hardly  have  followed  the  teaching  of  "Emile" 
very  closely,  since  he  employed  tutors  to  teach 
his  daughter,  at  an  extremely  early  age,  the  very 
subjects  which  Rousseau  forbade,  such  as  his- 
tory, literature  and  foreign  languages. 

My  Mother  was  his  special  favourite,  and  his 
vanity  did  its  best  to  make  a  blue-stocking  of 
her.  She  read  Greek,  Latin  and  even  a  little 
Hebrew,  and,  what  was  more  important,  her  mind 
was  trained  to  be  self-supporting.  But  she  was 
diametrically  opposed  in  essential  matters  to  her 
easy-going,  luxurious  and  self-indulgent  parents. 
Reviewing  her  life  in  her  thirtieth  year,  she  re- 
marked in  some  secret  notes:  "I  cannot  recollect 
the  time  when  I  did  not  love  religion."  She  used 
a  still  more  remarkable  expression:  "If  I  must 
date  my  conversion  from  my  first  wish  and  trial 
to  be  holy,  I  may  go  back  to  infancy;  if  I  am 
to  postpone  it  till  after  my  last  wilful  sin,  it  is 
scarcely  yet  begun."  The  irregular  pleasures  of 
her  parents'  life  were  deeply  distasteful  to  her, 
as  such  were  to  many  young  persons  in  those  days 
of  the  wide  revival  of  Conscience,  and  when  my 
grandfather,  by  his  reckless  expenditure,  which 

3 


FATHER   AND   SON 

he  never  checked  till  ruin  was  upon  him,  was 
obliged  to  sell  his  estate,  and  live  in  penury, 
my  Mother  was  the  only  member  of  the  family 
who  did  not  regret  the  change.  For  my  own 
part,  I  believe  I  should  have  liked  my  reprobate 
maternal  grandfather,  but  his  conduct  was  cer- 
tainly very  vexatious.  He  died,  in  his  eightieth 
year,  when  I  was  nine  months  old. 

It  was  a  curious  coincidence  that  life  had 
brought  both  my  parents  along  similar  paths 
to  an  almost  identical  position  in  respect  to 
religious  belief.  She  had  started  from  the  Angli- 
can standpoint,  he  from  the  Wesleyan,  and 
each,  almost  without  counsel  from  others,  and 
after  varied  theological  experiments,  had  come 
to  take  up  precisely  the  same  attitude  towards 
all  divisions  of  the  Protestant  Church,  that, 
namely,  of  detached  and  unbiassed  contempla- 
tion. So  far  as  the  sects  agreed  with  my  Father 
and  my  Mother,  the  sects  were  walking  in  the 
light;  wherever  they  differed  from  them,  they 
had  slipped  more  or  less  definitely  into  a  penum- 
bra of  their  own  making,  a  darkness  into  which 
neither  of  my  parents  would  follow  them.  Hence, 
by  a  process  of  selection,  my  Father  and  my 
Mother  alike  had  gradually,  without  violence, 
found  themselves  shut  outside  all  Protestant 
communions,  and  at  last  they  met  only  with  a 

4 


FATHER   AND   SON 

few  extreme  Calvinists  like  themselves,  on  terms 
of  what  may  almost  be  called  negation — with 
no  priest,  no  ritual,  no  festivals,  no  ornament  of 
any  kind,  nothing  but  the  Lord's  Supper  and  the 
exposition  of  Holy  Scripture  drawing  these  austere 
spirits  into  any  sort  of  cohesion.  They  called 
themselves  "the  Brethren,"  simply;  a  title 
enlarged  by  the  world  outside  into  "Plymouth 
Brethren." 

It  was  accident  and  similarity  which  brought 
my  parents  together  at  these  meetings  of  the 
Brethren.  Each  was  lonely,  each  was  poor, 
each  was  accustomed  to  a  strenuous  intellectual 
self-support.  He  was  nearly  thirty-eight,  she 
was  past  forty-two,  when  they  married.  From 
a  suburban  lodging,  he  brought  her  home  to 
his  mother's  little  house  in  the  north-east  of 
London  without  a  single  day's  honeymoon. 
My  Father  was  a  zoologist,  and  a  writer  of  books 
on  natural  history ;  my  Mother  also  was  a  writer, 
author  already  of  two  slender  volumes  of  religious 
verse — the  earlier  of  which,  I  know  not  how, 
must  have  enjoyed  some  slight  success,  since  a 
second  edition  was  printed — afterwards  she  de- 
voted her  pen  to  popular  works  of  edification. 
But  how  infinitely  removed  in  their  aims,  their 
habits,  their  ambitions  from  "literary"  people 
of  the  present  day,  words  are  scarcely  adequate 

5 


FATHER   AND   SON 

to  describe.  Neither  knew  nor  cared  about  any 
manifestation  of  current  literature.  For  each 
there  had  been  no  poet  later  than  Byron,  and 
neither  had  read  a  romance  since,  in  childhood, 
they  had  dipped  into  the  Waverley  Novels  as 
they  appeared  in  succession.  For  each  the  var- 
ious forms  of  imaginative  and  scientific  literature 
were  merely  means  of  improvement  and  profit, 
which  kept  the  student  "out  of  the  world," 
gave  him  full  employment,  and  enabled  him  to 
maintain  himself.  But  pleasure  was  found  no- 
where but  in  the  Word  of  God,  and  to  the  end- 
less discussion  of  the  Scriptures  each  hurried  when 
the  day's  work  was  over. 

In  this  strange  household  the  advent  of  a 
child  was  not  welcomed,  but  was  borne  with 
resignation.  The  event  was  thus  recorded  in 
my  Father's  diary: 

"E.  delivered  of  a  son.  Received  green  swal- 
low from  Jamaica." 

This  entry  has  caused  amusement,  as  showing 
that  he  was  as  much  interested  in  the  bird  as 
in  the  boy.  But  this  does  not  follow;  what 
the  wording  exemplifies  is  my  Father's  extreme 
punctilio.  The  green  swallow  arrived  later  in 
the  day  than  the  son,  and  the  earlier  visitor 
was  therefore  recorded  first;  my  Father  was 
scrupulous  in  every  species  of  arrangement. 

6 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Long  afterwards,  my  Father  told  me  that  my 
Mother  suffered  much  in  giving  birth  to  me,  and 
that,  uttering  no  cry,  I  appeared  to  be  dead. 
I  was  laid,  with  scant  care,  on  another  bed  in 
the  room,  while  all  anxiety  and  attention  were 
concentrated  on  my  Mother.  An  old  woman  who 
happened  to  be  there,  and  who  was  unemployed, 
turned  her  thoughts  to  me,  and  tried  to  awake 
in  me  a  spark  of  vitality.  She  succeeded,  and 
she  was  afterwards  complimented  by  the  doctor 
on  her  cleverness.  My  Father  could  not — when 
he  told  me  the  story — recollect  the  name  of  my 
preserver.  I  have  often  longed  to  know  who 
she  was.  For  all  the  rapture  of  life,  for  all  its 
turmoils,  its  anxious  desires,  its  manifold  pleas- 
ures, and  even  for  its  sorrow  and  suffering,  I 
bless  and  praise  that  anonymous  old  lady  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

It  was  six  weeks  before  my  Mother  was  able 
to  leave  her  room.  The  occasion  was  made  a 
solemn  one,  and  was  attended  by  a  species  of 
Churching.  Mr.  Balfour,  an  aged  minister  of 
the  denomination,  held  a  private  service  in  the 
parlour,  and  "  prayed  for  our  child,  that  he 
may  be  the  Lord's."  This  was  the  opening  act 
of  that  " dedication"  which  was  never  hence- 
forward forgotten,  and  of  which  the  following 
pages   will   endeavour   to   describe   the   results. 

7 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Around  my  tender  and  unconscious  spirit  was 
flung  the  luminous  web,  the  light  and  elastic 
but  impermeable  veil,  which  it  was  hoped  would 
keep  me  " unspotted  from  the  world." 

Until  this  time  my  Father's  mother  had  lived 
in  the  house  and  taken  the  domestic  charges 
of  it  on  her  own  shoulders.  She  now  consented 
to  leave  us  to  ourselves.  There  is  no  question 
that  her  exodus  was  a  relief  to  my  Mother,  since 
my  paternal  grandmother  was  a  strong  and 
masterful  woman,  buxom,  choleric  and  practical, 
for  whom  the  interests  of  the  mind  did  not  exist. 
Her  daughter-in-law,  gentle  as  she  was,  and 
ethereal  in  manner  and  appearance — strangely 
contrasted  (no  doubt),  in  her  tinctures  of  gold 
hair  and  white  skin,  with  my  grandmother's 
bold  carnations  and  black  tresses — was  yet 
possessed  of  a  will  like  tempered  steel.  They 
were  better  friends  apart,  with  my  grandmother 
lodged  hard  by,  in  a  bright  room,  her  household 
gods  and  bits  of  excellent  eighteenth-century 
furniture  around  her,  her  miniatures  and  spar- 
kling china  arranged  on  the  shelves. 

Left  to  my  Mother's  sole  care,  I  became  the 
centre  of  her  solicitude.  But  there  mingled 
with  those  happy  animal  instincts  which  sustain 
the  strength  and  patience  of  every  human  mother, 
and  were  fully  present  with  her — there  mingled 

8 


FATHER   AND   SON 

with  these  certain  spiritual  determinations  which 
can  be  but  rare.  They  are,  in  their  outline,  I 
suppose,  vaguely  common  to  many  religious 
mothers,  but  there  are  few  indeed  who  fill  up 
the  sketch  with  so  firm  a  detail  as  she  did.  Once 
again  I  am  indebted  to  her  secret  notes,  in  a 
little  locked  volume,  seen  until  now,  nearly 
sixty  years  later,  by  no  eye  save  her  own.  Thus 
she  wrote  when  I  was  two  months  old: 

"We  have  given  him  to  the  Lord;  and  we 
trust  that  He  will  really  manifest  him  to  be 
His  own,  if  he  grow  up;  and  if  the  Lord  take 
him  early,  we  will  not  doubt  that  he  is  taken 
to  Himself.  Only,  if  it  please  the  Lord  to  take 
him,  I  do  trust  we  may  be  spared  seeing  him 
suffering  in  lingering  illness  and  much  pain. 
But  in  this  as  in  all  things  His  will  is  better 
than  what  we  can  choose.  Whether  his  life 
be  prolonged  or  not,  it  has  already  been  a  blessing 
to  us,  and  to  the  saints,  in  leading  us  to  much 
prayer,  and  bringing  us  into  varied  need  and 
some  trial." 

The  last  sentence  is  somewhat  obscure  to  ne. 
How,  at  that  tender  age,  I  contrived  to  be  a 
blessing  "to  the  saints"  may  surprise  others 
and  puzzles  myself.    But  "the  saints"  was  the 

9 


FATHER   AND   SON 

habitual  term  by  which  were  indicated  the  friends 
who  met  on  Sunday  mornings  for  Holy  Com- 
munion, and  at  many  other  times  in  the  week 
for  prayer  and  discussion  of  the  Scriptures,  in 
the  small  hired  hall  at  Hackney,  which  my 
parents  attended.  I  suppose  that  the  solemn 
dedication  of  me  to  the  Lord,  which  was  re- 
peated in  public  in  my  Mother's  arms,  being  by 
no  means  a  usual  or  familiar  ceremony  even 
among  the  Brethren,  created  a  certain  curiosity 
and  fervour  in  the  immediate  services,  or  was 
imagined  so  to  do  by  the  fond,  partial  heart  of 
my  Mother.  She,  however,  who  had  been  so 
much  isolated,  now  made  the  care  of  her  child 
an  excuse  for  retiring  still  further  into  silence. 
With  those  religious  persons  who  met  at  the 
Room,  as  the  modest  chapel  was  called,  she  had 
little  spiritual  and  no  intellectual  sympathy. 
She  noted: 

"I  do  not  think  it  would  increase  my  happi- 
ness to  be  in  the  midst  of  the  saints  at  Hackney. 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  give  myself  up  to 
Baby  for  the  winter,  and  to  accept  no  invitations. 
To  go  when  I  can  to  the  Sunday  morning  meet- 
ings and  to  see  my  own  Mother." 

The  monotony  of  her  existence  now  became 
10 


FATHER   AND   SON 

extreme,  but  she  seems  to  have  been  happy. 
Her  days  were  spent  in  taking  care  of  me,  and 
in  directing  one  young  servant.  My  Father 
was  for  ever  in  his  study,  writing,  drawing, 
dissecting;  sitting,  no  doubt,  as  I  grew  after- 
wards accustomed  to  see  him,  absolutely  motion- 
less, with  his  eye  glued  to  the  microscope,  for 
twenty  minutes  at  a  time.  So  the  greater  part 
of  every  week-day  was  spent,  and  on  Sunday 
he  usually  preached  one,  and  sometimes  two 
extempore  sermons.  His  work-day  labours  were 
rewarded  by  the  praise  of  the  learned  world, 
to  which  he  was  indifferent,  but  by  very  little 
money,  which  he  needed  more.  For  over  three 
years  after  their  marriage,  neither  of  my  parents 
left  London  for  a  single  day,  not  being  able  to 
afford  to  travel.  They  received  scarcely  any 
visitors,  never  ate  a  meal  away  from  home,  never 
spent  an  evening  in  social  intercourse  abroad. 
At  night  they  discussed  theology,  read  aloud  to 
one  another,  or  translated  scientific  brochures 
from  French  or  German.  It  sounds  a  terrible 
life  of  pressure  and  deprivation,  and  that  it  was 
physically  unwholesome  there  can  be  no  shadow 
of  a  doubt.  But  their  contentment  was  com- 
plete and  unfeigned.  In  the  midst  of  this, 
materially,  the  hardest  moment  of  their  lives, 
when  I  was  one  year  old,  and  there  was  a  question 

II 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  our  leaving  London,  my  Mother  recorded  in 
her  secret  notes: — 


"We  are  happy  and  contented,  having  all 
things  needful  and  pleasant,  and  our  present 
habitation  is  hallowed  by  many  sweet  associa- 
tions. We  have  our  house  to  ourselves  and 
enjoy  each  other's  society.  If  we  move  we 
shall  no  longer  be  alone.  The  situation  may  be 
more  favourable,  however,  for  Baby,  as  being 
more  in  the  country.  I  desire  to  have  no  choice 
in  the  matter,  but  as  I  know  not  what  would 
be  for  our  good,  and  God  knows,  so  I  desire  to 
leave  it  with  Him,  and  if  it  is  not  His  will  we 
should  move,  He  will  raise  objections  and  diffi- 
culties, and  if  it  is  His  will  He  will  make  Henry 
[my  Father]  desirous  and  anxious  to  take  the 
step,  and  then,  whatever  the  result,  let  us  leave 
all  to  Him  and  not  regret  it." 

No  one  who  is  acquainted  with  the  human 
heart  will  mistake  this  attitude  of  resignation  for 
weakness  of  purpose.  It  was  not  poverty  of  will, 
it  was  abnegation,  it  was  a  voluntary  act.  My 
Mother,  underneath  an  exquisite  amenity  of 
manner,  concealed  a  rigour  of  spirit  which  took 
the  form  of  a  constant  self-denial.  For  it  to 
dawn  upon  her  consciousness  that  she  wished 

12 


FATHER   AND   SON 

for  something,  was  definitely  to  renounce  that 
wish,  or,  more  exactly,  to  subject  it  in  everything 
to  what  she  conceived  to  be  the  will  of  God. 
This  is  perhaps  the  right  moment  for  me  to  say 
that  at  this  time,  and  indeed  until  the  hour 
of  her  death,  she  exercised,  without  suspecting 
it,  a  magnetic  power  over  the  will  and  nature  of 
my  Father.  Both  were  strong,  but  my  Mother 
was  unquestionably  the  stronger  of  the  two; 
it  was  her  mind  which  gradually  drew  his  to  take 
up  a  certain  definite  position,  and  this  remained 
permanent  although  she,  the  cause  of  it,  was 
early  removed.  Hence,  while  it  was  with  my 
Father  that  the  long  struggle  which  I  have  to 
narrate  took  place,  behind  my  Father  stood  the 
ethereal  memory  of  my  Mother's  will,  guiding 
him,  pressing  him,  holding  him  to  the  unswerv- 
ing purpose  which  she  had  formed  and  denned. 
And  when  the  inevitable  disruption  came,  what 
was  unspeakably  painful  was  to  realise  that  it 
was  not  from  one,  but  from  both  parents  that 
the  purpose  of  the  child  was  separated. 

My  Mother  was  a  Puritan  in  grain,  and  never 
a  word  escaped  from  her,  not  a  phrase  exists  in 
her  diary,  to  suggest  that  she  had  any  privations 
to  put  up  with.  She  seemed  strong  and  well, 
and  so  did  I;  the  one  of  us  who  broke  down 
was  my  Father.     With  his  attack  of  acute  nervous 

13 


FATHER   AND   SON 

dyspepsia  came  an  unexpected  small  accession 
of  money,  and  we  were  able,  in  my  third  year,  to 
take  a  holiday  of  nearly  ten  months  in  Devonshire. 
The  extreme  seclusion,  the  unbroken  strain,  were 
never  repeated,  and  when  we  returned  to  London, 
it  was  to  conditions  of  greater  amenity  and  to  a 
less  rigid  practice  of  "the  world  forgetting  by 
the  world  forgot."  That  this  relaxation  was 
more  relative  than  positive,  and  that  nothing 
ever  really  tempted  either  of  my  parents  from 
their  cavern  in  an  intellectual  Thebaid,  my 
recollections  will  amply  prove.  But  each  of 
them  was  forced  by  circumstances  into  a  more 
or  less  public  position,  and  neither  could  any 
longer  quite  ignore  the  world  around. 

It  is  not  my  business  here  to  re-write  the 
biographies  of  my  parents.  Each  of  them  be- 
came, in  a  certain  measure,  celebrated,  and 
each  was  the  subject  of  a  good  deal  of  contem- 
porary discussion.  Each  was  prominent  before 
the  eyes  of  a  public  of  his  or  her  own,  half  a  cen- 
tury ago.  It  is  because  their  minds  were  vigor- 
ous and  their  accomplishments  distinguished  that 
the  contrast  between  their  spiritual  point  of  view 
and  the  aspect  of  a  similar  class  of  persons  to-day 
is  interesting  and  may,  I  hope,  be  instructive. 
But  this  is  not  another  memoir  of  public  indi- 
viduals, each  of  whom  has  had  more  than  one 

14 


FATHER   AND   SON 

biographer.  My  serious  duty,  as  I  venture  to 
hold  it,  is  other; 

that's  the  world's  side, 
Thus  men  saw  them,  praised  them,  thought  they  knew  them! 
There,  in  turn,  I  stood  aside  and  praised  them! 
Out  of  my  own  self  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 

But  this  is  a  different  inspection,  this  is  a 
study  of 

the  other  side,  the  novel 
Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of, 

the  record  of  a  state  of  soul  once  not  uncommon 
in  Protestant  Europe,  of  which  my  parents  were 
perhaps  the  latest  consistent  exemplars  among 
people  of  light  and  leading. 

The  peculiarities  of  a  family  life,  founded 
upon  such  principles,  are,  in  relation  to  a  little 
child,  obvious;  but  I  may  be  permitted  to  re- 
capitulate them.  Here  was  perfect  purity,  per- 
fect intrepidity,  perfect  abnegation;  yet  there 
was  also  narrowness,  isolation,  an  absence  of 
perspective,  let  it  be  boldly  admitted,  an  absence 
of  humanity.  And  there  was  a  curious  mixture 
of  humbleness  and  arrogance;  entire  resignation 
to  the  will  of  God  and  not  less  entire  disdain  of 
the  judgment  and  opinion  of  man.  My  parents 
founded  every  action,  every  attitude,  upon  their 
interpretation  of  the  Scriptures,  and  upon  the 

15 


FATHER   AND   SON 

guidance  of  the  Divine  Will  as  revealed  to  them 
by  direct  answer  to  prayer.  Their  ejaculation 
in  the  face  of  any  dilemma  was,  "Let  us  cast  it 
before  the  Lord!" 

So  confident  were  they  of  the  reality  of  their 
intercourse  with  God,  that  they  asked  for  no 
other  guide.  They  recognised  no  spiritual  author- 
ity among  men,  they  subjected  themselves  to 
no  priest  or  minister,  they  troubled  their  con- 
sciences about  no  current  manifestation  of  "re- 
ligious opinion."  They  lived  in  an  intellectual 
cell,  bounded  at  its  sides  by  the  walls  of  their 
own  house,  but  open  above  to  the  very  heart  of 
the  uttermost  heavens. 

This,  then,  was  the  scene  in  which  the  soul 
of  a  little  child  was  planted,  not  as  in  an  ordinary 
open  flower-border  or  carefully  tended  social 
parterre,  but  as  on  a  ledge,  split  in  the  granite 
of  some  mountain.  The  ledge  was  hung  between 
night  and  the  snows  on  one  hand,  and  the  dizzy 
depths  of  the  world  upon  the  other;  was  fur- 
nished with  just  soil  enough  for  a  gentian  to 
struggle  skywards  and  open  its  stiff  azure  stars; 
and  offered  no  lodgement,  no  hope  of  salvation,  to 
any  rootlet  which  should  stray  beyond  its  inex- 
orable limits. 


16 


CHAPTER  n 

Out  of  the  darkness  of  my  infancy  there  comes 
only  one  flash  of  memory.  I  am  seated  alone, 
in  my  baby-chair,  at  a  dinner-table  set  for  several 
people.  Somebody  brings  in  a  leg  of  mutton, 
puts  it  down  close  to  me,  and  goes  out.  I  am 
again  alone,  gazing  at  two  low  windows,  wide 
open  upon  a  garden.  Suddenly,  noiselessly,  a 
large,  long  animal  (obviously  a  greyhound) 
appears  at  one  window-sill,  slips  into  the  room, 
seizes  the  leg  of  mutton  and  slips  out  again. 
When  this  happened  I  could  not  yet  talk.  The 
accomplishment  of  speech  came  to  me  very 
late,  doubtless  because  I  never  heard  young 
voices.  Many  years  later,  when  I  mentioned 
this  recollection,  there  was  a  shout  of  laughter 
and  surprise: — 

"That,  then,  was  what  became  of  the  mutton! 
It  was  not  you,  who,  as  your  Uncle  A.  pretended, 
ate  it  up,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  bone  and 
all!" 

17 


FATHER   AND   SON 

I  suppose  that  it  was  the  startling  intensity 
of  this  incident  which  stamped  it  upon  a  memory 
from  which  all  other  impressions  of  this  early 
date  have  vanished. 

The  adventure  of  the  leg  of  mutton  occurred, 
evidently,  at  the  house  of  my  Mother's  brothers, 
for  my  parents,  at  this  date,  visited  no  other. 
My  uncles  were  not  religious  men,  but  they  had 
an  almost  filial  respect  for  my  Mother,  who  was 
several  years  senior  to  the  elder  of  them.  When 
the  catastrophe  of  my  grandfather's  fortune  had 
occurred,  they  had  not  yet  left  school.  My 
Mother,  in  spite  of  an  extreme  dislike  of  teaching, 
which  was  native  to  her,  immediately  accepted 
the  situation  of  a  governess  in  the  family  of  an 
Irish  nobleman.  The  mansion  was  only  to  be 
approached,  as  Miss  Edgeworth  would  have 
said,  "  through  eighteen  sloughs,  at  the  imminent 
peril  of  one's  life,"  and  when  one  had  reached  it, 
the  mixture  of  opulence  and  squalour,  of  civility 
and  savagery,  was  unspeakable.  But  my  Mother 
was  well  paid,  and  she  stayed  in  this  distasteful 
environment,  doing  the  work  she  hated  most, 
while  with  the  margin  of  her  salary  she  helped 
first  one  of  her  brothers  and  then  the  other 
through  his  Cambridge  course.  They  studied 
hard  and  did  well  at  the  university.  At  length 
their  sister  received,  in  her  ultima  Thule,  news 

18 


FATHER   AND   SON 

that  her  younger  brother  had  taken  his  degree, 
and  then  and  there,  with  a  sigh  of  intense  relief, 
she  resigned  her  situation  and  came  straight 
back  to  England. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  then,  that  my 
uncles  looked  up  to  their  sister  with  feelings  of 
especial  devotion.  They  were  not  inclined,  they 
were  hardly  in  a  position,  to  criticise  her  modes 
of  thought.  They  were  easy-going,  cultured 
and  kindly  gentlemen,  rather  limited  in  their 
views,  without  a  trace  of  their  sister's  force  of 
intellect  or  her  strenuous  temper.  E.  resembled 
her  in  person;  he  was  tall,  fair,  with  auburn 
curls;  he  cultivated  a  certain  tendency  to  the 
Byronic  type,  fatal  and  melancholy.  A.  was 
short,  brown  and  jocose,  with  a  pretension  to 
common  sense;  bluff  and  chatty.  As  a  little 
child,  I  adored  my  Uncle  E.,  who  sat  silent  by 
the  fireside,  holding  me  against  his  knee,  saying 
nothing,  but  looking  unutterably  sad,  and  oc- 
casionally shaking  his  warm-coloured  tresses. 
With  great  injustice,  on  the  other  hand,  I  de- 
tested my  Uncle  A.,  because  he  used  to  joke  in  a 
manner  very  displeasing  to  me,  and  because  he 
would  so  far  forget  himself  as  to  chase,  and  even, 
if  it  will  be  credited,  to  tickle  me.  My  uncles, 
who  remained  bachelors  to  the  end  of  their  lives, 
earned   a   comfortable   living,   E.    by   teaching, 

19 


FATHER   AND   SON 

A.  as  "something  in  the  City,"  and  they  rented 
an  old  rambling  house  in  Clapton,  that  same  in 
which  I  saw  the  greyhound.  Their  house  had  a 
strange,  delicious  smell,  so  unlike  anything  I 
smelt  anywhere  else,  that  it  used  to  fill  my  eyes 
with  tears  of  mysterious  pleasure.  I  know  now 
that  this  was  the  odour  of  cigars,  tobacco  being 
a  species  of  incense  tabooed  at  home  on  the 
highest  religious  grounds. 

It  has  been  recorded  that  I  was  slow  in  learning 
to  speak.  I  used  to  be  told  that  having  met  all 
invitations  to  repeat  such  words  as  "Papa" 
and  "Mamma"  with  gravity  and  indifference, 
I  one  day  drew  towards  me  a  volume,  and  said 
"book"  with  startling  distinctness.  I  was  not 
at  all  precocious,  but  at  a  rather  early  age,  I 
think  towards  the  beginning  of  my  fourth  year, 
I  learned  to  read.  I  cannot  recollect  a  time 
when  a  printed  page  of  English  was  closed  to 
me.  But  perhaps  earlier  still  my  Mother  used 
to  repeat  to  me  a  poem  which  I  have  always 
taken  for  granted  that  she  had  herself  composed, 
a  poem  which  had  a  romantic  place  in  my  early 
mental  history.    It  ran  thus,  I  think: 

O  pretty  Moon,  you  shine  so  bright! 
I'll  go  to  bid  Mamma  good-night, 
And  then  I'll  lie  upon  my  bed 
And  watch  you  move  above  my  head. 

20 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Ah!   there,  a  cloud  has  hidden  you! 
But  I  can  see  your  light  shine  thro'! 
It  tries  to  hide  you — quite  in  vain, 
For — there  you  quickly  come  again! 


It's  God,  I  know,  that  makes  you  shine 
Upon  this  little  bed  of  mine; 
But  I  shall  all  about  you  know 
When  I  can  read  and  older  grow. 

Long,  long  after  the  last  line  had  become 
an  anachronism,  I  used  to  shout  this  poem 
from  my  bed  before  I  went  to  sleep,  whether 
the  night  happened  to  be  moon-lit  or  no. 

It  must  have  been  my  Father  who  taught  me 
my  letters.  To  my  Mother,  as  I  have  said,  it  was 
distasteful  to  teach,  though  she  was  so  prompt 
and  skilful  to  learn.  My  Father,  on  the  contrary, 
taught  cheerfully,  by  fits  and  starts.  In  partic- 
ular, he  had  a  scheme  for  rationalising  geography, 
which  I  think  was  admirable.  I  was  to  climb 
upon  a  chair,  while,  standing  at  my  side,  with  a 
pencil  and  a  sheet  of  paper,  he  was  to  draw  a 
chart  of  the  markings  on  the  carpet.  Then,  when 
I  understood  the  system,  another  chart  on  a 
smaller  scale  of  the  furniture  in  the  room,  then  of 
a  floor  of  the  house,  then  of  the  back-garden,  then 
of  a  section  of  the  street.  The  result  of  this  was 
that  geography  came  to  me  of  itself,  as  a  perfectly 
natural  miniature  arrangement  of  objects,  and  to 

21 


FATHER   AND   SON 

this  day  has  always  been  the  science  which  gives 
me  least  difficulty.  My  Father  also  taught  me  the 
simple  rules  of  arithmetic,  a  little  natural  history, 
and  the  elements  of  drawing;  and  he  laboured 
long  and  unsuccessfully  to  make  me  learn  by 
heart  hymns,  psalms  and  chapters  of  Scripture,  in 
which  I  always  failed  ignominiously  and  with 
tears.  This  puzzled  and  vexed  him,  for  he 
himself  had  an  extremely  retentive  textual 
memory.  He  could  not  help  thinking  that  I 
was  naughty,  and  would  not  learn  the  chapters, 
until  at  last  he  gave  up  the  effort.  All  this 
sketch  of  an  education  began,  I  believe,  in  my 
fourth  year,  and  was  not  advanced  or  modified 
during  the  rest  of  my  Mother's  life. 

Meanwhile,  capable  as  I  was  of  reading,  I 
found  my  greatest  pleasure  in  the  pages  of  books. 
The  range  of  these  was  limited,  for  story-books 
of  every  description  were  sternly  excluded. 
No  fiction  of  any  kind,  religious  or  secular,  was 
admitted  into  the  house.  In  this  it  was  to  my 
Mother,  not  to  my  Father,  that  the  prohibition 
was  due.  She  had  a  remarkable,  I  confess  to  me 
still  somewhat  unaccountable  impression,  that  to 
"tell  a  story,"  that  is,  to  compose  fictitious 
narrative  of  any  kind,  was  a  sin.  She  carried 
this  conviction  to  extreme  lengths.  My  Father, 
in  later  years,  gave  me  some  interesting  examples 

22 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  her  firmness.  As  a  young  man  in  America, 
he  had  been  deeply  impressed  by  "Salathiel," 
a  pious  prose  romance  of  that  then  popular 
writer,  the  Rev.  George  Croly.  When  he  first 
met  my  Mother,  he  recommended  it  to  her,  but 
she  would  not  consent  to  open  it.  Nor  would 
she  read  the  chivalrous  tales  in  verse  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  obstinately  alleging  that  they  were  not 
"true."  She  would  read  none  but  lyrical  and 
subjective  poetry.  Her  secret  diary  reveals  the 
history  of  this  singular  aversion  to  the  fictitious, 
although  it  cannot  be  said  to  explain  the  cause 
of  it.  As  a  child,  however,  she  had  possessed  a 
passion  for  making  up  stories,  and  so  considerable 
a  skill  in  it  that  she  was  constantly  being  begged 
to  indulge  others  with  its  exercise.  But  I  will, 
on  so  curious  a  point,  leave  her  to  speak  for  her- 
self: 

"When  I  was  a  very  little  child,  I  used  to 
amuse  myself  and  my  brothers  with  inventing 
stories,  such  as  I  read.  Having,  as  I  suppose, 
naturally  a  restless  mind  and  busy  imagination, 
this  soon  became  the  chief  pleasure  of  my  life. 
Unfortunately,  my  brothers  were  always  fond 
of  encouraging  this  propensity,  and  I  found  in 
Taylor,  my  maid,  a  still  greater  tempter.  I 
had  not  known  there  was  any  harm  in  it,  until 

23 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Miss  Shore  [a  Calvinist  governess],  finding  it 
out,  lectured  me  severely,  and  told  me  it  was 
wicked.  From  that  time  forth  I  considered 
that  to  invent  a  story  of  any  kind  was  a  sin. 
But  the  desire  to  do  so  was  too  deeply  rooted 
in  my  affection  to  be  resisted  in  my  own  strength 
[she  was  at  that  time  nine  years  of  age],  and  un- 
fortunately I  knew  neither  my  corruption  nor 
my  weakness,  nor  did  I  know  where  to  gain 
strength.  The  longing  to  invent  stories  grew 
with  violence;  everything  I  heard  or  read  be- 
came food  for  my  distemper.  The  simplicity  of 
truth  was  not  sufficient  for  me;  I  must  needs 
embroider  imagination  upon  it,  and  the  folly, 
vanity  and  wickedness  which  disgraced  my  heart 
are  more  than  I  am  able  to  express.  Even  now 
[at  the  age  of  twenty-nine],  though  watched, 
prayed  and  striven  against,  this  is  still  the  sin 
that  most  easily  besets  me.  It  has  hindered  my 
prayers  and  prevented  my  improvement,  and 
therefore  has  humbled  me  very  much." 

This  is,  surely,  a  very  painful  instance  of  the 
repression  of  an  instinct.  There  seems  to  have 
been,  in  this  case,  a  vocation  such  as  is  rarely 
heard,  and  still  less  often  wilfully  disregarded 
and  silenced.  Was  my  Mother  intended  by 
nature  to  be  a  novelist?    I  have  often  thought 

24 


FATHER   AND   SON 

so,  and  her  talents  and  vigour  of  purpose,  directed 
along  the  line  which  was  ready  to  form  "the 
chief  pleasure  of  her  life,"  could  hardly  have 
failed  to  conduct  her  to  great  success.  She 
was  a  little  younger  than  Bulwer  Lytton,  a  little 
older  than  Mrs.  Gaskell, — but  these  are  vain  and 
trivial  speculations! 

My  own  state,  however,  was,  I  should  think, 
almost  unique  among  the  children  of  cultivated 
parents.  In  consequence  of  the  stern  ordinance 
which  I  have  described,  not  a  single  fiction  was 
read  or  told  to  me  during  my  infancy.  The 
rapture  of  the  child  who  delays  the  process 
of  going  to  bed  by  cajoling  "a  story"  out  of  his 
mother  or  his  nurse,  as  he  sits  upon  her  knee, 
well  tucked  up,  at  the  corner  of  the  nursery  fire, — 
this  was  unknown  to  me.  Never,  in  all  my  early 
childhood,  did  any  one  address  to  me  the  affecting 
preamble,  "Once  upon  a  time!"  I  was  told 
about  missionaries,  but  never  about  pirates; 
I  was  familiar  with  humming-birds,  but  I  had 
never  heard  of  fairies.  Jack  the  Giant-Killer, 
Rumpelstiltskin  and  Robin  Hood  were  not  of 
my  acquaintance,  and  though  I  understood  about 
wolves,  Little  Red  Ridinghood  was  a  stranger 
even  by  name.  So  far  as  my  "dedication"  was 
concerned,  I  can  but  think  that  my  parents  were 
in  error  thus  to  exclude  the  imaginary  from  my 

25 


FATHER   AND   SON 

outlook  upon  facts.  They  desired  to  make  me 
truthful;  the  tendency  was  to  make  me  positive 
and  sceptical.  Had  they  wrapped  me  in  the 
soft  folds  of  supernatural  fancy,  my  mind  might 
have  been  longer  content  to  follow  their  traditions 
in  an  unquestioning  spirit. 

Having  easily  said  what,  in  those  early  years, 
I  did  not  read,  I  have  great  difficulty  in  saying 
what  I  did  read.  But  a  queer  variety  of  natural 
history,  some  of  it  quite  indigestible  by  my  un- 
developed mind;  many  books  of  travels,  mainly 
of  a  scientific  character,  among  them  voyages  of 
discovery  in  the  South  Seas,  by  which  my  brain 
was  dimly  filled  with  splendour;  some  geography 
and  astronomy,  both  of  them  sincerely  enjoyed; 
much  theology,  which  I  desired  to  appreciate  but 
could  never  get  my  teeth  into  (if  I  may  venture 
to  say  so),  and  over  which  my  eye  and  tongue 
learned  to  slip  without  penetrating,  so  that  I 
would  read,  and  read  aloud,  and  with  great 
propriety  of  emphasis,  page  after  page  without 
having  formed  an  idea  or  retained  an  expression. 
There  was,  for  instance,  a  writer  on  prophecy 
called  Jukes,  of  whose  works  each  of  my  parents 
was  inordinately  fond,  and  I  was  early  set  to 
read  Jukes  aloud  to  them.  I  did  it  glibly,  like 
a  machine,  but  the  sight  of  Jukes's  volumes 
became   an   abomination   to   me,   and   I   never 

26 


FATHER   AND   SON 

formed  the  outline  of  a  notion  what  they  were 
about.  Later  on,  a  publication  called  "The 
Penny  Cyclopaedia"  became  my  daily,  and  for 
a  long  time  almost  my  sole  study;  to  the  subject 
of  this  remarkable  work  I  may  presently  return. 
It  is  difficult  to  keep  anything  like  chrono- 
logical order  in  recording  fragments  of  early 
recollection,  and  in  speaking  of  my  reading  I 
have  been  led  too  far  ahead.  My  memory  does 
not,  practically,  begin  till  we  returned  from 
certain  visits,  made  with  a  zoological  purpose, 
to  the  shores  of  Devon  and  Dorset,  and  settled, 
early  in  my  fifth  year,  in  a  house  at  Islington, 
in  the  north  of  London.  Our  circumstances 
were  now  more  easy;  my  Father  had  regular 
and  well-paid  literary  work;  and  the  house  was 
larger  and  more  comfortable  than  ever  before, 
though  still  very  simple  and  restricted.  My 
memories,  some  of  which  are  exactly  dated  by 
certain  facts,  now  become  clear  and  almost 
abundant.  What  I  do  not  remember,  except 
from  having  it  very  often  repeated  to  me,  is 
what  may  be  considered  the  only  "clever"  thing 
that  I  said  during  an  otherwise  unillustrious 
childhood.  It  was  not  startlingly  "clever,"  but 
it  may  pass.  A  lady — when  I  was  just  four — 
rather  injudiciously  showed  me  a  large  print  of 
a  human  skeleton,   saying  "There!    you  don't 

27 


FATHER   AND   SON 

know  what  that  is,  do  you?"  Upon  which, 
immediately  and  very  archly,  I  replied,  "Isn't 
it  a  man  with  the  meat  off?"  This  was  thought 
wonderful,  and,  as  it  is  supposed  that  I  had  never 
had  the  phenomenon  explained  to  me,  it  certainly 
displays  some  quickness  in  seizing  an  analogy. 
I  had  often  watched  my  Father,  while  he  soaked 
the  flesh  off  the  bones  of  fishes  and  small  mam- 
mals. If  I  venture  to  repeat  this  trifle,  it  is 
only  to  point  out  that  the  system  on  which  I 
was  being  educated  deprived  all  things,  human 
life  among  the  rest,  of  their  mystery.  The 
"bare-grinning  skeleton  of  death"  was  to  me 
merely  a  prepared  specimen  of  that  featherless 
plantigrade  vertebrate,  homo  sapiens. 

As  I  have  said  that  this  anecdote  was  thought 
worth  repeating,  I  ought  to  proceed  to  say 
that  there  was,  so  far  as  I  can  recollect,  none 
of  that  flattery  of  childhood  which  is  so  often 
merely  a  backhanded  way  of  indulging  the 
vanity  of  parents.  My  Mother,  indeed,  would 
hardly  have  been  human  if  she  had  not  occa- 
sionally entertained  herself  with  the  delusion 
that  her  solitary  duckling  was  a  cygnet.  This 
my  Father  did  not  encourage,  remarking,  with 
great  affection,  and  chucking  me  under  the 
chin,  that  I  was  "a  nice  little  ordinary  boy." 
My  Mother,  stung  by  this  want  of  appreciation, 

28 


FATHER   AND   SON 

would  proceed  so  far  as  to  declare  that  she 
believed  that  in  future  times  the  F.R.S.  would 
be  chiefly  known  as  his  son's  father!  (This  is  a 
pleasantly  frequent  in  professional  families.) 
To  this  my  Father,  whether  convinced  or  not, 
would  make  no  demur,  and  the  couple  would 
begin  to  discuss,  in  my  presence,  the  direction 
which  my  shining  talents  would  take.  In  conse- 
quence of  my  dedication  to  "the  Lord's  Service," 
the  range  of  possibilities  was  much  restricted. 
My  Father,  who  had  lived  long  in  the  Tropics,  and 
who  nursed  a  perpetual  nostalgia  for  "the  little 
lazy  isles  where  the  trumpet-orchids  blow," 
leaned  towards  the  field  of  missionary  labour. 
My  Mother,  who  was  cold  about  foreign  missions, 
preferred  to  believe  that  I  should  be  the  Charles 
Wesley  of  my  age,  "or  perhaps,"  she  had  the 
candour  to  admit,  "merely  the  George  White- 
field."  I  cannot  recollect  the  time  when  I  did  not 
understand  that  I  was  going  to  be  a  minister 
of  the  Gospel. 

It  is  so  generally  taken  for  granted  that  a 
life  strictly  dedicated  to  religion  is  stiff  and 
dreary,  that  I  may  have  some  difficulty  in  per- 
suading my  readers  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
in  these  early  days  of  my  childhood,  before 
disease  and  death  had  penetrated  to  our  slender 
society,  we  were  always  cheerful  and  often  gay. 

29 


FATHER   AND   SON 

My  parents  were  playful  with  one  another,  and 
there  were  certain  stock  family  jests  which  seldom 
failed  to  enliven  the  breakfast  table.  My  Father 
and  Mother  lived  so  completely  in  the  atmosphere 
of  faith,  and  were  so  utterly  convinced  of  their 
intercourse  with  God,  that,  so  long  as  that  inter- 
course was  not  clouded  by  sin,  to  which  they 
were  delicately  sensitive,  they  could  afford  to 
take  the  passing  hour  very  lightly.  They  would 
even,  to  a  certain  extent,  treat  the  surroundings 
of  their  religion  as  a  subject  of  jest,  joking  very 
mildly  and  gently  about  such  things  as  an  atti- 
tude at  prayer  or  the  nature  of  a  supplication. 
They  were  absolutely  indifferent  to  forms.  They 
prayed,  seated  in  their  chairs,  as  willingly  as, 
reversed,  upon  their  knees;  no  ritual  having  any 
significance  for  them.  My  Mother  was  sometimes 
extremely  gay,  laughing  with  a  soft,  merry  sound. 
What  I  have  since  been  told  of  the  guileless  mirth 
of  nuns  in  a  convent  has  reminded  me  of  the  gaiety 
of  my  parents  during  my  early  childhood. 

So  long  as  I  was  a  mere  part  of  them,  without 
individual  existence,  and  swept  on,  a  satellite, 
in  their  atmosphere,  I  was  mirthful  when  they 
were  mirthful,  and  grave  when  they  were  grave. 
The  mere  fact  that  I  had  no  young  companions, 
no  story  books,  no  outdoor  amusements,  none  of 
the   thousand   and   one   employments   provided 

30 


FATHER   AND   SON 

for  other  children  in  more  conventional  surround- 
ings, did  not  make  me  discontented  or  fretful, 
because  I  did  not  know  of  the  existence  of  such 
entertainments.  In  exchange,  I  became  keenly 
attentive  to  the  limited  circle  of  interests  open  to 
me.  Oddly  enough,  I  have  no  recollection  of  any 
curiosity  about  other  children,  nor  of  any  desire 
to  speak  to  them  or  play  with  them.  They  did 
not  enter  into  my  dreams,  which  were  occupied 
entirely  with  grown-up  people  and  animals.  I 
had  three  dolls,  to  whom  my  attitude  was  not  very 
intelligible.  Two  of  these  were  female,  one 
with  a  shapeless  face  of  rags,  the  other  in  wax. 
But,  in  my  fifth  year,  when  the  Crimean  War 
broke  out,  I  was  given  a  third  doll,  a  soldier, 
dressed  very  smartly  in  a  scarlet  cloth  tunic. 
I  used  to  put  the  dolls  on  three  chairs,  and 
harangue  them  aloud,  but  my  sentiment  to  them 
was  never  confidential,  until  our  maid-servant 
one  day,  intruding  on  my  audience,  and  mis- 
understanding the  occasion  of  it,  said:  "What? 
a  boy,  and  playing  with  a  soldier  when  he's  got 
two  lady-dolls  to  play  with?"  I  had  never 
thought  of  my  dolls  as  confidants  before,  but 
from  that  time  forth  I  paid  a  special  attention 
to  the  soldier,  in  order  to  make  up  to  him  for 
Lizzie's  unwarrantable  insult. 
The  declaration  of  war  with  Russia  brought 
31 


FATHER   AND   SON 

the  first  breath  of  outside  life  into  our  Calvinist 
cloister.  My  parents  took  in  a  daily  newspaper, 
which  they  had  never  done  before,  and  events 
in  picturesque  places,  which  my  Father  and  I 
looked  out  on  the  map,  were  eagerly  discussed. 
One  of  my  vividest  early  memories  can  be  dated 
exactly.  I  was  playing  about  the  house,  and 
suddenly  burst  into  the  breakfast-room,  where, 
close  to  the  door,  sat  an  amazing  figure,  a  very 
tall  young  man,  as  stiff  as  my  doll,  in  a  gorgeous 
scarlet  tunic.  Quite  far  away  from  him,  at  her 
writing-table,  my  Mother  sat  with  her  Bible  open 
before  her,  and  was  urging  the  gospel  plan  of 
salvation  on  his  acceptance.  She  promptly  told 
me  to  run  away  and  play,  but  I  had  seen  a  great 
sight.  This  guardsman  was  in  the  act  of  leaving 
for  the  Crimea,  and  his  adventures, — he  was  con- 
verted in  consequence  of  my  Mother's  instruction, 
— were  afterwards  told  by  her  in  a  tract,  called 
"The  Guardsman  of  the  Alma,"  of  which  I 
believe  that  more  than  half  a  million  of  copies 
were  circulated.  He  was  killed  in  that  battle, 
and  this  added  an  extraordinary  lustre  to  my 
dream  of  him.  I  see  him  still  in  my  mind's 
eye,  large,  stiff,  and  unspeakably  brilliant,  seated, 
from  respect,  as  near  as  possible  to  our  parlour 
door.  This  apparition  gave  reality  to  my  subse- 
quent conversations  with  the  soldier  doll. 

32 


FATHER   AND   SON 

That  same  victory  of  the  Alma,  which  was 
reported  in  London  on  my  fifth  birthday,  is 
also  marked  very  clearly  in  my  memory  by  a 
family  circumstance.  We  were  seated  at  break- 
fast, at  our  small  round  table  drawn  close  up  to 
the  window,  my  Father  with  his  back  to  the 
light.  Suddenly,  he  gave  a  sort  of  cry,  and 
read  out  the  opening  sentences  from  the  Times 
announcing  a  battle  in  the  valley  of  the  Alma. 
No  doubt  the  strain  of  national  anxiety  had 
been  very  great,  for  both  he  and  my  Mother 
seemed  deeply  excited.  He  broke  off  his  read- 
ing when  the  fact  of  the  decisive  victory  was 
assured,  and  he  and  my  Mother  sank  simultane- 
ously on  their  knees  in  front  of  their  tea 
and  bread-and-butter,  while  in  a  loud  voice  my 
Father  gave  thanks  to  the  God  of  Battles.  This 
patriotism  was  the  more  remarkable,  in  that  he 
had  schooled  himself,  as  he  believed,  to  put  his 
"heavenly  citizenship"  above  all  earthly  duties. 
To  those  who  said:  "Because  you  are  a  Christian, 
surely  you  are  not  less  an  Englishman  ?"  he 
would  reply  by  shaking  his  head,  and  by  saying: 
"I  am  a  citizen  of  no  earthly  State."  He  did 
not  realise  that,  in  reality,  and,  to  use  a  cant 
phrase  not  yet  coined  in  1854,  there  existed  in 
Great  Britain  no  more  thorough  Jingo  than  he. 

Another  instance  of  the  remarkable  way  in 
33 


FATHER   AND   SON 

which  the  interests  of  daily  life  were  mingled, 
in  our  strange  household,  with  the  practice  of 
religion,  made  an  impression  upon  my  memory. 
We  had  all  three  been  much  excited  by  a  report 
that  a  certain  dark  geometer-moth,  generated 
in  underground  stables,  had  been  met  with  in 
Islington.  Its  name,  I  think,  is  boletobia  fuligi- 
naria,  and  I  believe  that  it  is  excessively  rare  in 
England.  We  were  sitting  at  family  prayers, 
on  a  summer  morning,  I  think  in  1855,  when 
through  the  open  window  a  brown  moth  came 
sailing.  My  Mother  immediately  interrupted  the 
reading  of  the  Bible  by  saying  to  my  Father, 
"0!  Henry,  do  you  think  that  can  be  boletobia?" 
My  Father  rose  up  from  the  sacred  book,  exam- 
ined the  insect,  which  had  now  perched,  and 
replied:  "No!  it  is  only  the  common  Vapourer, 
orgygia  antiqua,"  resuming  his  seat,  and  the 
exposition  of  the  Word,  without  any  apology  or 
embarrassment. 

In  the  course  of  this,  my  sixth  year,  there 
happened  a  series  of  minute  and  soundless 
incidents  which,  elementary  as  they  may  seem 
when  told,  were  second  in  real  importance  to 
none  in  my  mental  history.  The  recollection 
of  them  confirms  me  in  the  opinion  that  certain 
leading  features  in  each  human  soul  are  inherent 
to  it,  and  cannot  be  accounted  for  by  suggestion 

34 


FATHER   AND   SON 

or  training.  In  my  own  case,  I  was  most  care- 
fully withdrawn,  like  Princess  Blanchefleur  in 
her  marble  fortress,  from  every  outside  influence 
whatever,  yet  to  me  the  instinctive  life  came  as 
unexpectedly  as  her  lover  came  to  her  in  the 
basket  of  roses.  What  came  to  me  was  the 
consciousness  of  self,  as  a  force  and  as  a  com- 
panion, and  it  came  as  the  result  of  one  or  two 
shocks,  which  I  will  relate. 

In  consequence  of  hearing  so  much  about 
an  Omniscient  God,  a  being  of  supernatural 
wisdom  and  penetration  who  was  always  with  us, 
who  made,  in  fact,  a  fourth  in  our  company,  I 
had  come  to  think  of  Him,  not  without  awe, 
but  with  absolute  confidence.  My  Father  and 
Mother,  in  their  serene  discipline  of  me,  never 
argued  with  one  another,  never  even  differed; 
their  wills  seemed  absolutely  one.  My  Mother 
always  deferred  to  my  Father,  and  in  his  absence 
spoke  of  him  to  me,  as  if  he  were  all-wise.  I 
confused  him  in  some  sense  with  God;  at  all 
events  I  believed  that  my  Father  knew  every- 
thing and  saw  everything.  One  morning  in  my 
sixth  year,  my  Mother  and  I  were  alone  in  the 
morning-room,  when  my  Father  came  in  and 
announced  some  fact  to  us.  I  was  standing 
on  the  rug,  gazing  at  him,  and  when  he  made 
this    statement,    I    remember    turning    quickly, 

35 


FATHER   AND   SON 

in  embarrassment,  and  looking  into  the  fire. 
The  shock  to  me  was  as  that  of  a  thunderbolt, 
for  what  my  Father  had  said  was  not  true.  My 
Mother  and  I,  who  had  been  present  at  the  trifling 
incident,  were  aware  that  it  had  not  happened 
exactly  as  it  had  been  reported  to  him.  My 
Mother  gently  told  him  so,  and  he  accepted  the 
correction.  Nothing  could  possibly  have  been 
more  trifling  to  my  parents,  but  to  me  it  meant 
an  epoch.  Here  was  the  appalling  discovery, 
never  suspected  before,  that  my  Father  was 
not  as  God,  and  did  not  know  everything.  The 
shock  was  not  caused  by  any  suspicion  that  he 
was  not  telling  the  truth,  as  it  appeared  to  him, 
but  by  the  awful  proof  that  he  was  not,  as  I  had 
supposed,  omniscient. 

This  experience  was  followed  by  another, 
which  confirmed  the  first,  but  carried  me  a  great 
deal  further.  In  our  little  back-garden,  my 
Father  had  built  up  a  rockery  for  ferns  and 
mosses,  and  from  the  water-supply  of  the  house 
he  had  drawn  a  leaden  pipe  so  that  it  pierced 
upwards  through  the  rockery  and  produced, 
when  a  tap  was  turned,  a  pretty  silvery  parasol 
of  water.  The  pipe  was  exposed  somewhere 
near  the  foot  of  the  rockery.  One  day,  two 
workmen,  who  were  doing  some  repairs,  left  their 
tools  during  the  dinner-hour  in  the  back-garden, 

36 


FATHER   AND   SON 

and  as  I  was  marching  about  I  suddenly  thought 
that  to  see  whether  one  of  these  tools  could  make 
a  hole  in  the  pipe  would  be  attractive.  It  did 
make  such  a  hole,  quite  easily,  and  then  the 
matter  escaped  my  mind.  But  a  day  or  two 
afterwards,  when  my  Father  came  in  to  dinner, 
he  was  very  angry.  He  had  turned  the  tap,  and, 
instead  of  the  fountain  arching  at  the  summit, 
there  had  been  a  rush  of  water  through  a  hole 
at  the  foot.    The  rockery  was  absolutely  ruined. 

Of  course  I  realised  in  a  moment  what  I  had 
done,  and  I  sat  frozen  with  alarm,  waiting  to 
be  denounced.  But  my  Mother  remarked  on 
the  visit  of  the  plumbers  two  or  three  days 
before,  and  my  Father  instantly  took  up  the 
suggestion.  No  doubt  that  was  it;  the  mis- 
chievous fellows  had  thought  it  amusing  to  stab 
the  pipe  and  spoil  the  fountain.  No  suspicion 
fell  on  me;  no  question  was  asked  of  me.  I 
sat  there,  turned  to  stone  within,  but  outwardly 
sympathetic  and  with  unchecked  appetite. 

We  attribute,  I  believe,  too  many  moral 
ideas  to  little  children.  It  is  obvious  that  in 
this  tremendous  juncture,  I  ought  to  have  been 
urged  forward  by  good  instincts,  or  held  back 
by  naughty  ones.  But  I  am  sure  that  the  fear 
which  I  experienced  for  a  short  time,  and  which  so 
unexpectedly  melted  away,  was  a  purely  physi- 

37 


FATHER   AND   SON 

cal  one.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  emo- 
tions of  a  contrite  heart.  As  to  the  destruction  of 
the  fountain,  I  was  sorry  about  that,  for  my  own 
sake,  since  I  admired  the  skipping  water  extremely, 
and  had  no  idea  that  I  was  spoiling  its  display. 
But  the  emotions  which  now  thronged  within  me, 
and  which  led  me  with  an  almost  unwise  alacrity, 
to  seek  solitude  in  the  back-garden,  were  not 
moral  at  all,  they  were  intellectual.  I  was  not 
ashamed  of  having  successfully — and  so  surpris- 
ingly— deceived  my  parents  by  my  crafty  silence ; 
I  looked  upon  that  as  a  providential  escape,  and 
dismissed  all  further  thought  of  it.  I  had  other 
things  to  think  of. 

In  the  first  place,  the  theory  that  my  Father 
was  omniscient  or  infallible  was  now  dead  and 
buried.  He  probably  knew  very  little;  in  this 
case  he  had  not  known  a  fact  of  such  importance 
that  if  you  did  not  know  that,  it  could  hardly 
matter  what  you  knew.  My  Father,  as  a  deity, 
as  a  natural  force  of  immense  prestige,  fell  in  my 
eyes  to  a  human  level.  In  future,  his  statements 
about  things  in  general  need  not  be  accepted 
implicitly.  But  of  all  the  thoughts  which  rushed 
upon  my  savage  and  undeveloped  little  brain  at 
this  crisis,  the  most  curious  was  that  I  had  found 
a  companion  and  a  confidant  in  myself.  There 
was  a  secret  in  this  world  and  it  belonged  to  me 

38 


FATHER   AND   SON 

and  to  a  somebody  who  lived  in  the  same  body 
with  me.  There  were  two  of  us,  and  we  could 
talk  with  one  another.  It  is  difficult  to  define 
impressions  so  rudimentary,  but  it  is  certain  that 
it  was  in  this  dual  form  that  the  sense  of  my 
individuality  now  suddenly  descended  upon  me, 
and  it  is  equally  certain  that  it  was  a  great 
solace  to  me  to  find  a  sympathiser  in  my  own 
breast. 

About  this  time,  my  Mother,  carried  away 
by  the  current  of  her  literary  and  her  philan- 
thropic work,  left  me  more  and  more  to  my 
own  devices.  She  was  seized  with  a  great  en- 
thusiasm; as  one  of  her  admirers  and  disciples 
has  written,  "she  went  on  her  way,  sowing 
beside  all  waters."  I  would  not  for  a  moment 
let  it  be  supposed  that  I  regard  her  as  a  Mrs. 
Jellyby,  or  that  I  think  she  neglected  me.  But 
a  remarkable  work  had  opened  up  before  her; 
after  her  long  years  in  a  mental  hermitage,  she 
was  drawn  forth  into  the  clamorous  harvest-field 
of  souls.  She  developed  an  unexpected  gift  of 
persuasion  over  strangers  whom  she  met  in  the 
omnibus  or  in  the  train,  and  with  whom  she 
courageously  grappled ;  this  began  by  'her  noting, 
with  deep  humility  and  joy,  that  "I  have  reason 
to  judge  the  sound  conversion  to  God  of  three 
young  persons  within  a  few  weeks,  by  the  in- 

39 


FATHER   AND   SON 

strumentality  of  my  conversations  with  them." 
At  the  same  time,  as  another  of  her  biographers  lias 
said,  "  those  testimonies  to  the  Blood  of  Christ, 
the  fruits  of  her  pen,  began  to  be  spread  very 
widely,  even  to  the  most  distant  parts  of  the 
globe."  My  Father,  too,  was  at  this  time  at 
the  height  of  his  activity.  After  breakfast,  each 
of  them  was  amply  occupied,  perhaps  until  night- 
fall; our  evenings  we  still  always  spent  together. 
Sometimes  my  Mother  took  me  with  her  on  her 
"unknown  day's  employ";  I  recollect  pleasant 
rambles  through  the  City  by  her  side,  and  the 
act  of  looking  up  at  her  figure  soaring  above  me. 
But  when  all  was  done,  I  had  hours  and  hours  of 
complete  solitude,  in  my  Father's  study,  in  the 
back-garden,  above  all  in  the  garret. 

The  garret  was  a  fairy  place.  It  was  a  low 
lean-to,  lighted  from  the  roof.  It  was  wholly 
unfurnished,  except  for  two  objects,  an  ancient 
hat-box  and  a  still  more  ancient  skin-trunk. 
The  hat-box  puzzled  me  extremely,  till  one 
day,  asking  my  Father  what  it  was,  I  got  a  dis- 
tracted answer  which  led  me  to  believe  that  it 
was  itself  a  sort  of  hat,  and  I  made  a  laborious 
but  repeated  effort  to  wear  it.  The  skin-trunk 
was  absolutely  empty,  but  the  inside  of  the  lid 
of  it  was  lined  with  sheets  of  what  I  now  know 
to  have  been  a  sensational  novel.    It  was,  of 

40 


FATHER   AND   SON 

course,  a  fragment,  but  I  read  it,  kneeling  on  the 
bare  floor,  with  indescribable  rapture.  It  will  be 
recollected  that  the  idea  of  fiction,  of  a  deliberately 
invented  story,  had  been  kept  from  me  with 
entire  success.  I  therefore  implicitly  believed 
the  tale  in  the  lid  of  the  trunk  to  be  a  true  ac- 
count of  the  sorrows  of  a  lady  of  title,  who  had 
to  flee  the  country,  and  who  was  pursued  into 
foreign  lands  by  enemies  bent  upon  her  ruin. 
Somebody  had  an  interview  with  a  " minion" 
in  a  "mask";  I  went  downstairs  and  looked 
up  these  words  in  Bailey's  "English  Dictionary," 
but  was  left  in  darkness  as  to  what  they  had  to 
do  with  the  lady  of  title.  This  ridiculous  frag- 
ment filled  me  with  delicious  fears ;  I  fancied  that 
my  Mother,  who  was  out -so  much,  might  be  threat- 
ened by  dangers  of  the  same  sort;  and  the  fact 
that  the  narrative  came  abruptly  to  an  end,  in  the 
middle  of  one  of  its  most  thrilling  sentences, 
wound  me  up  almost  to  a  disorder  of  wonder  and 
romance. 

The  preoccupation  of  my  parents  threw  me 
more  and  more  upon  my  own  resources.  But 
what  are  the  resources  of  a  solitary  child  of 
six?  I  was  never  inclined  to  make  friends  with 
servants,  nor  did  our  successive  maids  proffer, 
so  far  as  I  recollect,  any  advances.  Perhaps, 
with  my  "dedication"  and  my  grown-up  ways 

41 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  talking,  I  did  not  seem  to  them  at  all  an  at- 
tractive little  boy.  I  continued  to  have  no 
companions,  or  even  acquaintances  of  my  own 
age.  I  am  unable  to  recollect  exchanging  two 
words  with  another  child  till  after  my  Mother's 
death.  The  abundant  energy  which  my  Mother 
now  threw  into  her  public  work  did  not  affect 
the  quietude  of  our  private  life.  We  had  some 
visitors  in  the  day-time,  people  who  came  to 
consult  one  parent  or  the  other.  But  they  never 
stayed  to  a  meal,  and  we  never  returned  their 
visits.  I  do  not  quite  know  how  it  was  that 
neither  of  my  parents  took  me  to  any  of  the 
sights  of  London,  although  I  am  sure  it  was  a 
question  of  principle  with  them.  Notwithstand- 
ing all  our  study  of  natural  history,  I  was  never 
introduced  to  live  wild  beasts  at  the  Zoo,  nor  to 
dead  ones  at  the  British  Museum.  I  can  under- 
stand better  why  we  never  visited  a  picture- 
gallery  or  a  concert-room.  So  far  as  I  can  recol- 
lect, the  only  time  I  was  ever  taken  to  any  place 
of  entertainment  was  when  my  Father  and  I  paid 
a  visit,  long  anticipated,  to  the  Great  Globe 
in  Leicester  Square.  This  was  a  huge  struct- 
ure, the  interior  of  which  one  ascended  by 
means  of  a  spiral  staircase.  It  was  a  poor  affair; 
that  was  concave  in  it  which  should  have  been 
convex,  and  my  imagination  was  deeply  affronted. 

42 


FATHER   AND   SON 

I  could  invent  a  far  better  Great  Globe  than  that 
in  my  mind's  eye  in  the  garret. 

Being  so  restricted,  then,  and  yet  so  active, 
my  mind  took  refuge  in  an  infantile  species  of 
natural  magic.  This  contended  with  the  definite 
ideas  of  religion  which  my  parents  were  continu- 
ing, with  too  mechanical  a  persistency,  to  force 
into  my  nature,  and  it  ran  parallel  with  them. 
I  formed  strange  superstitions,  which  I  can  only 
render  intelligible  by  naming  some  concrete  ex- 
amples. I  persuaded  myself  that,  if  I  could 
only  discover  the  proper  words  to  say  or  the 
proper  passes  to  make,  I  could  induce  the  gor- 
geous birds  and  butterflies  in  my  Father's  illus- 
trated manuals  to  come  to  life,  and  fly  out  of  the 
book,  leaving  holes  behind  them.  I  believed 
that,  when,  at  the  Chapel,  we  sang,  drearily  and 
slowly,  loud  hymns  of  experience  and  humilia- 
tion, I  could  boom  forth  with  a  sound  equal  to 
that  of  dozens  of  singers,  if  I  could  only  hit  upon 
the  formula.  During  morning  and  evening  prayers, 
which  were  extremely  lengthy  and  fatiguing,  I 
fancied  that  one  of  my  two  selves  could  flit  up, 
and  sit  clinging  to  the  cornice,  and  look  down 
on  my  other  self  and  the  rest  of  us,  if  I  could  only 
find  the  key.  I  laboured  for  hours  in  search  of 
these  formulas,  thinking  to  compass  my  ends  by 
means  absolutely  irrational.    For  example,  I  was 

43 


FATHER   AND   SON 

convinced  that  if  I  could  only  count  consecutive 
numbers  long  enough,  without  losing  one,  I 
should  suddenly,  on  reaching  some  far-distant 
figure,  find  myself  in  possession  of  the  great 
secret.  I  feel  quite  sure  that  nothing  external 
suggested  these  ideas  of  magic,  and  I  think  it 
probable  that  they  approached  the  ideas  of 
savages  at  a  very  early  stage  of  development. 

All  this  ferment  of  mind  was  entirely  unob- 
served by  my  parents.  But  when  I  formed  the 
belief  that  it  was  necessary,  for  the  success  of  my 
practical  magic,  that  I  should  hurt  myself,  and 
when,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  began,  in  extreme 
secrecy,  to  run  pins  into  my  flesh  and  bang  my 
joints  with  books,  no  one  will  be  surprised  to 
hear  that  my  Mother's  attention  was  drawn  to 
the  fact  that  I  was  looking  "delicate."  The 
notice  nowadays  universally  given  to  the  hygienic 
rules  of  life  was  rare  fifty  years  ago,  and  among 
deeply  religious  people,  in  particular,  fatalistic 
views  of  disease  prevailed.  If  any  one  was  ill, 
it  showed  that  "the  Lord's  hand  was  extended 
in  chastisement,"  and  much  prayer  was  poured 
forth  in  order  that  it  might  be  explained  to 
the  sufferer,  or  to  his  relations,  in  what  he  or 
they  had  sinned.  People  would,  for  instance, 
go  on  living  over  a  cess-pool,  working  them- 
selves up  into  an  agony  to  discover  how  they  had 

44 


FATHER   AND   SON 

incurred  the  displeasure  of  the  Lord,  but  never 
moving  away.  As  I  became  very  pale  and 
nervous,  and  slept  badly  at  nights,  with  visions 
and  loud  screams  in  my  sleep,  I  was  taken  to  a 
physician,  who  stripped  me  and  tapped  me  all 
over  (this  gave  me  some  valuable  hints  for  my 
magical  practices),  but  could  find  nothing  the 
matter.  He  recommended, — whatever  physicians 
in  such  cases  always  recommend, — but  nothing 
was  done.  If  I  was  feeble  it  was  the  Lord's 
Will,  and  we  must  acquiesce. 

It  culminated  in  a  sort  of  fit  of  hysterics,  when 
I  lost  all  self-control,  and  sobbed  with  tears, 
and  banged  my  head  on  the  table.  While  this 
was  proceeding,  I  was  conscious  of  that  dual 
individuality  of  which  I  have  already  spoken, 
since  while  one  part  of  me  gave  way,  and  could 
not  resist,  the  other  part  in  some  extraordinary 
sense  seemed  standing  aloof,  much  impressed. 
I  was  alone  with  my  Father  when  this  crisis  sud- 
denly occurred,  and  I  was  interested  to  see  that 
he  was  greatly  alarmed.  It  was  a  very  long  time 
since  we  had  spent  a  day  out  of  London,  and  I 
said,  on  being  coaxed  back  to  calmness,  that  I 
wanted  "to  go  into  the  country."  Like  the  dying 
Falstaff,  I  babbled  of  green  fields.  My  Father, 
after  a  little  reflection,  proposed  to  take  me  to 
Primrose  Hill.     I  had  never  heard  of  the  place, 

45 


FATHER   AND   SON 

and  names  have  always  appealed  directly  to 
my  imagination.  I  was  in  the  highest  degree 
delighted,  and  could  hardly  restrain  my  im- 
patience. As  soon  as  possible  we  set  forth  west- 
ward, my  hand  in  my  Father's,  with  the  liveliest 
anticipations.  I  expected  to  see  a  mountain 
absolutely  carpeted  with  primroses,  a  terrestrial 
galaxy  like  that  which  covered  the  hill  that  led 
up  to  Montgomery  Castle  in  Donne's  poem. 
But  at  length,  as  we  walked  from  the  Chalk 
Farm  direction,  a  miserable  acclivity  stole  into 
view — surrounded,  even  in  those  days,  on  most 
sides  by  houses,  with  its  grass  worn  to  the  buff 
by  millions  of  boots,  and  resembling  what  I 
meant  by  "the  country"  about  as  much  as 
Poplar  resembles  Paradise.  We  sat  down  on  a 
bench  at  its  inglorious  summit,  whereupon  I 
burst  into  tears,  and  in  a  heart-rending  whisper 
sobbed,  "Oh!   Papa,  let  us  go  home!" 

This  was  the  lachrymose  epoch  in  a  career  not 
otherwise  given  to  weeping,  for  I  must  tell  one 
more  tale  of  tears.  About  this  time, — the  autumn 
of  1855, — my  parents  were  disturbed  more  than 
once  in  the  twilight,  after  I  had  been  put  to  bed, 
by  shrieks  from  my  crib.  They  would  rush  up 
to  my  side,  and  find  me  in  great  distress,  but  would 
be  unable  to  discover  the  cause  of  it.  The  fact 
was  that  I  was  half  beside  myself  with  ghostly 

46 


FATHER   AND   SON 

fears,  increased  and  pointed  by  the  fact  that  there 
had  been  some  daring  burglaries  in  our  street. 
Our  servant-maid,  who  slept  at  the  top  of  the 
house,  had  seen,  or  thought  she  saw,  upon  a 
moonlight  night,  the  figure  of  a  crouching  man, 
silhouetted  against  the  sky,  slip  down  from  the 
roof  and  leap  into  her  room.  She  screamed, 
and  he  fled  away.  Moreover,  as  if  this  were  not 
enough  for  my  tender  nerves,  there  had  been 
committed  a  horrid  murder,  at  a  baker's  shop 
just  round  the  corner  in  the  Caledonian  Road, 
to  which  murder  actuality  was  given  to  us  by 
the  fact  that  my  Mother  had  been  "just  thinking" 
of  getting  her  bread  from  this  shop.  Children, 
I  think,  were  not  spared  the  details  of  these 
affairs  fifty  years  ago;  at  least,  I  was  not,  and 
my  nerves  were  a  packet  of  spilikins. 

But  what  made  me  scream  o'  nights,  was 
that  when  my  Mother  had  tucked  me  up  in  bed, 
and  had  heard  me  say  my  prayer,  and  had 
prayed  aloud  on  her  knees  at  my  side,  and  had 
stolen  downstairs,  noises  immediately  began  in 
the  room.  There  was  a  rustling  of  clothes,  and 
a  slapping  of  hands,  and  a  gurgling,  and  a  sniffing, 
and  a  trotting.  These  horrible  muffled  sounds 
would  go  on,  and  die  away,  and  be  resumed; 
I  would  pray  very  fervently  to  God  to  save  me 
from  my  enemies;  and  sometimes  I  would  go  to 

47 


FATHER   AND   SON 

sleep.  But  on  other  occasions,  my  faith  and  forti- 
tude alike  gave  way,  and  I  screamed  "Mamma! 
Mamma!"  Then  would  my  parents  come  bound- 
ing up  the  stairs,  and  comfort  me,  and  kiss  me, 
and  assure  me  it  was  nothing.  And  nothing  it 
was  while  they  were  there,  but  no  sooner  had 
they  gone  than  the  ghostly  riot  recommenced. 
It  was  at  last  discovered  by  my  Mother  that 
the  whole  mischief  was  due  to  a  card  of  framed 
texts,  fastened  by  one  nail  to  the  wall;  this  did 
nothing  when  the  bed-room  door  was  shut,  but 
when  it  was  left  open  (in  order  that  my  parents 
might  hear  me  call),  the  card  began  to  gallop  in 
the  draught,  and  made  the  most  intolerable 
noises. 

Several  things  tended  at  this  time  to  alienate 
my  conscience  from  the  line  which  my  Father 
had  so  rigidly  traced  for  it.  The  question  of  the 
efficacy  of  prayer,  which  has  puzzled  wiser  heads 
than  mine  was,  began  to  trouble  me.  It  was 
insisted  on  in  our  household  that  if  anything 
was  desired,  you  should  not,  as  my  Mother  said, 
"lose  any  time  in  seeking  for  it,  but  ask  God  to 
guide  you  to  it."  In  many  junctures  of  life,  this 
is  precisely  what,  in  sober  fact,  they  did.  I 
will  not  dwell  here  on  their  theories,  which  my 
Mother  put  forth,  with  unflinching  directness, 
in  her  published  writings.    But  I  found  that  a 

48 


FATHER   AND   SON 

difference  was  made  between  my  privileges  in 
this  matter  and  theirs,  and  this  led  to  many 
discussions.  My  parents  said:  "Whatever  you 
need,  tell  Him  and  He  will  grant  it,  if  it  is  His 
will."  Very  well;  I  had  need  of  a  large  painted 
humming-top  which  I  had  seen  in  a  shop-window 
in  the  Caledonian  Road.  Accordingly,  I  intro- 
duced a  supplication  for  this  object  into  my 
evening  prayer,  carefully  adding  the  words: 
"If  it  is  Thy  will."  This,  I  recollect,  placed  my 
Mother  in  a  dilemma,  and  she  consulted  my 
Father.  Taken,  I  suppose,  at  a  disadvantage, 
my  Father  told  me  I  must  not  pray  for  "things 
like  that."  To  which  I  answered  by  another 
query,  "Why?"  And  I  added  that  he  said  we 
ought  to  pray  for  things  we  needed,  and  that 
I  needed  the  humming-top  a  great  deal  more 
than  I  did  the  conversion  of  the  heathen  or  the 
restitution  of  Jerusalem  to  the  Jews,  two  objects 
of  my  nightly  supplication  which  left  me  very 
cold. 

I  have  reason  to  believe,  looking  back  upon 
this  scene,  conducted  by  candle-light  in  the 
front  parlour,  that  my  Mother  was  much  baffled 
by  the  logic  of  my  argument.  She  had  gone  so 
far  as  to  say  publicly  that  no  "things  or  circum- 
stances are  too  insignificant  to  bring  before  the 
God  of  the  whole  earth."    I  persisted  that  this 

49 


FATHER   AND   SON 

covered  the  case  of  the  humming-top,  which  was 
extremely  significant  to  me.  I  noticed  that  she 
held  aloof  from  the  discussion,  which  was  carried 
on  with  some  show  of  annoyance  by  my  Father. 
He  had  never  gone  quite  so  far  as  she  did  in 
regard  to  this  question  of  praying  for  material 
things.  I  am  not  sure  that  she  was  convinced 
that  I  ought  to  have  been  checked;  but  he  could 
not  help  seeing  that  it  reduced  their  favourite 
theory  to  an  absurdity  for  a  small  child  to  exer- 
cise the  privilege.  He  ceased  to  argue,  and 
told  me  peremptorily  that  it  was  not  right  for 
me  to  pray  for  things  like  humming-tops,  and 
that  I  must  do  it  no  more.  His  authority,  of 
course,  was  paramount,  and  I  yielded;  but  my 
faith  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer  was  a  good  deal 
shaken.  The  fatal  suspicion  had  crossed  my 
mind  that  the  reason  why  I  was  not  to  pray  for 
the  top  was  because  it  was  too  expensive  for  my 
parents  to  buy,  that  being  the  usual  excuse  for 
not  getting  things  I  wished  for. 

It  was  about  the  date  of  my  sixth  birthday 
that  I  did  something  very  naughty,  some  act  of 
direct  disobedience,  for  which  my  Father,  after 
a  solemn  sermon,  chastised  me,  sacrificially,  by 
giving  me  several  cuts  with  a  cane.  This  action 
was  justified,  as  everything  he  did  was  justified, 
by  reference  to  Scripture — "  Spare  the  rod  and 

50 


FATHER   AND   SON 

spoil  the  child."  I  suppose  that  there  are  some 
children,  of  a  sullen  and  lymphatic  temperament, 
who  are  smartened  up  and  made  more  wide-awake 
by  a  whipping.  It  is  largely  a  matter  of  con- 
vention, the  exercise  being  endured  (I  am  told) 
with  pride  by  the  infants  of  our  aristocracy,  but 
not  tolerated  by  the  lower  classes.  I  am  afraid 
that  I  proved  my  inherent  vulgarity  by  being 
made,  not  contrite  or  humble,  but  furiously 
angry  by  this  caning.  I  cannot  account  for  the 
flame  of  rage  which  it  awakened  in  my  bosom. 
My  dear,  excellent  Father  had  beaten  me,  not 
very  severely,  without  ill-temper,  and  with  the 
most  genuine  desire  to  improve  me.  But  he 
was  not  well-advised,  especially  so  far  as  the 
"dedication  to  the  Lord's  service"  was  concerned. 
This  same  " dedication"  had  ministered  to  my 
vanity,  and  there  are  some  natures  which  are  not 
improved  by  being  humiliated.  I  have  to  confess 
with  shame  that  I  went  about  the  house  for  some 
days  with  a  murderous  hatred  of  my  Father 
locked  within  my  bosom.  He  did  not  suspect 
that  the  chastisement  had  not  been  wholly  effica- 
cious, and  he  bore  me  no  malice;  so  that  after 
a  while,  I  forgot  and  thus  forgave  him.  But 
I  do  not  regard  physical  punishment  as  a  wise 
element  in  the  education  of  proud  and  sensitive 
children. 

51 


FATHER   AND   SON 

My  theological  misdeeds  culminated,  however, 
in  an  act  so  puerile  and  preposterous  that  I 
should  not  venture  to  record  it  if  it  did  not  throw 
some  glimmering  of  light  on  the  subject  which 
I  have  proposed  to  myself  in  writing  these  pages. 
My  mind  continued  to  dwell  on  the  mysterious 
question  of  prayer.  It  puzzled  me  greatly  to 
know  why,  if  we  were  God's  children,  and  if  he 
was  watching  over  us  by  night  and  day,  we  might 
not  supplicate  for  toys  and  sweets  and  smart 
clothes  as  well  as  for  the  conversion  of  the  heathen. 
Just  at  this  juncture,  we  had  a  special  service 
at  the  Room,  at  which  our  attention  was  par- 
ticularly called  to  what  we  always  spoke  of  as 
"the  field  of  missionary  labour."  The  East 
was  represented  among  "the  saints"  by  an  excel- 
lent Irish  peer,  who  had,  in  his  early  youth, 
converted  and  married  a  lady  of  colour;  this 
Asiatic  shared  in  our  Sunday  morning  meetings, 
and  was  an  object  of  helpless  terror  to  me;  I 
shrank  from  her  amiable  caresses,  and  vaguely 
identified  her  with  a  personage  much  spoken  of 
in  our  family  circle,  the  "Personal  Devil." 

All  these  matters  drew  my  thoughts  to  the 
subject  of  idolatry,  which  was  severely  censured 
at  the  missionary  meeting.  I  cross-examined 
my  Father  very  closely  as  to  the  nature  of  this 
sin,   and  pinned  him  down  to  the   categorical 

52 


FATHER   AND   SON 

statement  that  idolatry  consisted  in  praying  to 
any  one  or  anything  but  God  himself.  Wood 
and  stone,  in  the  words  of  the  hymn,  were  pecu- 
liarly liable  to  be  bowed  down  to  by  the  heathen 
in  their  blindness.  I  pressed  my  Father  further 
on  this  subject,  and  he  assured  me  that  God  would 
be  very  angry,  and  would  signify  His  anger,  if 
any  one,  in  a  Christian  country,  bowed  down  to 
wood  and  stone.  I  cannot  recall  why  I  was  so 
pertinacious  on  this  subject,  but  I  remember 
that  my  Father  became  a  little  restive  under  my 
cross-examination.  I  determined,  however,  to 
test  the  matter  for  myself,  and  one  morning,  when 
both  my  parents  were  safely  out  of  the  house, 
I  prepared  for  the  great  act  of  heresy.  I  was 
in  the  morning-room  on  the  ground-floor,  where, 
with  much  labour,  I  hoisted  a  small  chair  on  to  the 
table  close  to  the  window.  My  heart  was  now 
beating  as  if  it  would  leap  out  of  my  side,  but  I 
pursued  my  experiment.  I  knelt  down  on  the 
carpet  in  front  of  the  table,  and  looking  up  I  said 
my  daily  prayer  in  a  loud  voice,  only  substituting 
the  address  "0  Chair!"  for  the  habitual  one. 

Having  carried  this  act  of  idolatry  safely 
through,  I  waited  to  see  what  would  happen. 
It  was  a  fine  day,  and  I  gazed  up  at  the  slip  of 
white  sky  above  the  houses  opposite,  and  ex- 
pected something  to  appear  in  it.    God  would 

53 


FATHER   AND    SON 

certainly  exhibit  his  anger  in  some  terrible  form, 
and  would  chastise  my  impious  and  wilful  action. 
I  was  very  much  alarmed,  but  still  more  excited ; 
I  breathed  the  high,  sharp  air  of  defiance.  But 
nothing  happened;  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the 
sky,  not  an  unusual  sound  in  the  street.  Presently 
I  was  quite  sure  that  nothing  would  happen.  I 
had  committed  idolatry,  flagrantly  and  deliber- 
ately, and  God  did  not  care.  The  result  of  this 
ridiculous  act  was  not  to  make  me  question  the 
existence  and  power  of  God;  those  were  forces 
which  I  did  not  dream  of  ignoring.  But  what 
it  did  was  to  lessen  still  further  my  confidence  in 
my  Father's  knowledge  of  the  Divine  mind. 
My  Father  had  said,  positively,  that  if  I  wor- 
shipped a  thing  made  of  wood,  God  would  mani- 
fest his  anger.  I  had  then  worshipped  a  chair, 
made  (or  partly  made)  of  wood,  and  God  had 
made  no  sign  whatever.  My  Father,  therefore, 
was  not  really  acquainted  with  the  Divine  practice 
in  cases  of  idolatry.  And  with  that,  dismissing 
the  subject,  I  dived  again  into  the  unplumbed 
depths  of  the  "Penny  Cyclopaedia." 


54 


CHAPTER  III 

That  I  might  die  in  my  early  childhood  was  a 
thought  which  frequently  recurred  to  the  mind 
of  my  Mother.  She  endeavoured,  with  a  Roman 
fortitude,  to  face  it  without  apprehension.  Soon 
after  I  had  completed  my  fifth  year  she  had  writ- 
ten as  follows  in  her  secret  journal: 

"  Should  we  be  called  on  to  weep  over  the 
early  grave  of  the  dear  one  whom  now  we  are 
endeavouring  to  train  for  heaven,  may  we  be 
able  to  remember  that  we  never  ceased  to  pray 
for  and  watch  over  him.  It  is  easy,  compara- 
tively, to  watch  over  an  infant.  Yet  shall  I 
be  sufficient  for  these  things?  I  am  not.  But 
God  is  sufficient.  In  his  strength  I  have  begun 
the  warfare,  in  his  strength  I  will  persevere,  and 
I  will  faint  not  till  either  I  myself  or  my  little 
one  is  beyond  the  reach  of  earthly  solicitude." 

That  either  she  or  I  would  be  called  away 
from  earth,  and  that  our  physical  separation  was 

55 


FATHER   AND   SON 

at  hand,  seems  to  have  been  always  vaguely 
present  in  my  Mother's  dreams,  as  an  obstinate 
conviction  to  be  carefully  recognised  and  jealously 
guarded  against. 

It  was  not,  however,  until  the  course  of  my 
seventh  year,  that  the  tragedy  occurred,  which 
altered  the  whole  course  of  our  family  existence. 
My  Mother  had  hitherto  seemed  strong  and  in 
good  health ;  she  had  even  made  the  remark  to  my 
Father,  that  "sorrow  and  pain,  the  badges  of  Chris- 
tian discipleship,"  appeared  to  be  withheld  from 
her.  On  her  birthday,  which  was  to  be  her  last,  she 
had  written  these  ejaculations  in  her  locked  diary: 

"Lord,  forgive  the  sins  of  the  past,  and  help 
me  to  be  faithful  in  future!  May  this  be  a  year 
of  much  blessing,  a  year  of  jubilee!  May  I  be 
kept  lowly,  trusting,  loving!  May  I  have  more 
blessing  than  in  all  former  years  combined! 
May  I  be  happier  as  a  wife,  mother,  sister,  writer, 
mistress,  friend!" 

But  a  symptom  began  to  alarm  her  and  in 
the  beginning  of  May,  having  consulted  a  local 
physician  without  being  satisfied,  she  went  to 
see  a  specialist  in  a  northern  suburb,  in  whose 
judgment  she  had  great  confidence.  This  oc- 
casion I  recollect  with  extreme  vividness.     I  had 

56 


FATHER   AND   SON 

been  put  to  bed  by  my  Father,  in  itself  a  note- 
worthy event.  My  crib  stood  near  a  window 
overlooking  the  street;  my  parents'  ancient  four- 
poster,  a  relic  of  the  eighteenth  century,  hid  me 
from  the  door,  but  I  could  see  the  rest  of  the 
room.  After  falling  as  eep  on  this  particular 
evening,  I  awoke  silently,  surprised  to  see  two 
lighted  candles  on  the  table,  and  my  Father  seated 
writing  by  them.  I  also  saw  a  little  meal  ar- 
ranged. 

While  I  was  wondering  at  all  this,  the  door 
opened,  and  my  Mother  entered  the  room;  she 
emerged  from  behind  the  bed-curtains,  with 
her  bonnet  on,  having  returned  from  her  ex- 
pedition. My  Father  rose  hurriedly,  pushing 
back  his  chair,  and  greeted  her  by  exclaiming: 
"Well,  what  does  he  say?"  There  was  a  pause, 
while  my  Mother  seemed  to  be  steadying  her  voice, 
and  then  she  replied,  loudly  and  distinctly,  "He 
says  it  is — "  and  she  mentioned  one  of  the  most 
cruel  maladies  by  which  our  poor  mortal  nature 
can  be  tormented.  Then  I  saw  them  fold  one 
another  in  a  silent  long  embrace,  and  presently 
sink  together  out  of  sight  on  their  knees,  at  the 
further  side  of  the  bed,  whereupon  my  Father 
lifted  up  his  voice  in  prayer.  Neither  of  them 
had  noticed  me,  and  now  I  lay  back  on  my  pillow 
and  fell  asleep. 

57 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Next  morning,  when  we  three  sat  at  break- 
fast, my  mind  reverted  to  the  scene  of  the  previous 
night.  With  my  eyes  on  my  plate,  as  I  was 
cutting  up  my  food,  I  asked,  casually,  "What  is 
— ?"  mentioning  the  disease  whose  unfamiliar 
name  I  had  heard  from  my  bed.  Receiving  no 
reply,  I  looked  up  to  discover  why  my  question 
was  not  answered,  and  I  saw  my  parents  gazing 
at  each  other  with  lamentable  eyes.  In  some 
way,  I  know  not  how,  I  was  conscious  of  the 
presence  of  an  incommunicable  mystery,  and  I 
kept  silence,  though  tortured  with  curiosity,  nor 
did  I  ever  repeat  my  inquiry. 

About  a  fortnight  later,  my  Mother  began 
to  go  three  times  a  week  all  the  long  way  from 
Islington  to  Pimlico,  in  order  to  visit  a  certain 
practitioner,  who  undertook  to  apply  a  special 
treatment  to  her  case.  This  involved  great 
fatigue  and  distress  to  her,  but  so  far  as  I  was 
personally  concerned  it  did  me  a  great  deal  of 
good.  I  invariably  accompanied  her,  and  when 
she  was  very  tired  and  weak,  I  enjoyed  the 
pride  of  believing  that  I  protected  her.  The 
movement,  the  exercise,  the  occupation,  lifted 
my  morbid  fears  and  superstitions  like  a  cloud. 
The  medical  treatment  to  which  my  poor  Mother 
was  subjected  was  very  painful,  and  she  had  a 
peculiar  sensitiveness  to  pain.    She  carried  on 

58 


FATHER   AND   SON 

her  evangelical  work  as  long  as  she  possibly 
could,  continuing  to  converse  with  her  fellow 
passengers  on  spiritual  matters.  It  was  wonder- 
ful that  a  woman,  so  reserved  and  proud  as 
she  by  nature  was,  could  conquer  so  completely  her 
natural  timidity.  In  those  last  months,  she 
scarcely  ever  got  into  a  railway  carriage  or  into 
an  omnibus,  without  presently  offering  tracts  to 
the  persons  sitting  within  reach  of  her,  or  en- 
deavouring to  begin  a  conversation  with  some 
one  on  the  sufficiency  of  the  Blood  of  Jesus  to 
cleanse  the  human  heart  from  sin.  Her  manners 
were  so  gentle  and  persuasive,  she  looked  so  inno- 
cent, her  small,  sparkling  features  were  lighted 
up  with  so  much  benevolence,  that  I  do  not  think 
she  ever  met  with  discourtesy  or  roughness. 
Imitative  imp  that  I  was,  I  sometimes  took  part 
in  these  strange  conversations,  and  was  mightily 
puffed  up  by  compliments  paid,  in  whispers,  to 
my  infant  piety.  But  my  Mother  very  properly 
discouraged  this,  as  tending  in  me  to  spiritual 
pride 

If  my  parents,  in  their  desire  to  separate  them- 
selves from  the  world,  had  regretted  that  through 
their  happiness  they  seemed  to  have  forfeited 
the  Christian  privilege  of  affliction,  they  could  not 
continue  to  complain  of  any  absence  of  temporal 
adversity.    Everything  seemed  to  combine,   in 

59 


FATHER   AND   SON 

the  course  of  this  fatal  year  1856,  to  harass  and 
alarm  them.  Just  at  a  moment  when  illness 
created  a  special  drain  upon  their  resources, 
their  slender  income,  instead  of  being  increased, 
was  seriously  diminished.  There  is  little  sym- 
pathy felt  in  this  world  of  rhetoric  for  the  silent 
sufferings  of  the  genteel  poor,  yet  there  is  no  class 
that  deserves  a  more  charitable  commiseration. 
At  the  best  of  times,  the  money  which  my  parents 
had  to  spend  was  an  exiguous  and  an  inelastic 
sum.  Strictly  economical,  proud — in  an  old- 
fashioned  mode  now  quite  out  of  fashion — to  con- 
ceal the  fact  of  their  poverty,  painfully  scrupulous 
to  avoid  giving  inconvenience  to  shop-people, 
tradesmen  or  servants,  their  whole  financial 
career  had  to  be  carried  on  with  the  adroitness 
of  a  campaign  through  a  hostile  country.  But 
now,  at  the  moment  when  fresh  pressing  claims 
were  made  on  their  resources,  my  Mother's 
small  capital  suddenly  disappeared.  It  had  been 
placed,  on  bad  advice  (they  were  as  children  in 
such  matters),  in  a  Cornish  mine,  the  grotesque 
name  of  which,  Wheal  Maria,  became  familiar  to 
my  ears.  One  day  the  river  Tamar,  in  a  playful 
mood,  broke  into  Wheal  Maria,  and  not  a  penny 
more  was  ever  lifted  from  that  unfortunate  enter- 
prise. About  the  same  time,  a  small  annuity  which 
my  Mother  had  inherited  also  ceased  to  be  paid. 

60 


FATHER   AND   SON 

On  my  Father's  books  and  lectures,  therefore, 
the  whole  weight  now  rested,  and  that  at  a 
moment  when  he  was  depressed  and  unnerved 
by  anxiety.  It  was  contrary  to  his  principles 
to  borrow  money,  so  that  it  became  necessary  to 
pay  doctor's  and  chemist's  bills  punctually,  and 
yet  carry  on  the  little  household  with  the  very 
small  margin.  Each  artifice  of  economy  was 
now  exercised  to  enable  this  to  be  done  without 
falling  into  debt,  and  every  branch  of  expenditure 
was  cut  down;  clothes,  books,  the  little  garden 
which  was  my  Father's  pride,  all  felt  the  pressure 
of  new  poverty.  Even  our  food,  which  had  always 
been  simple,  now  became  Spartan  indeed,  and  I 
am  sure  that  my  Mother  often  pretended  to  have 
no  appetite  that  there  might  remain  enough  to 
satisfy  my  hunger.  Fortunately  my  Father  was 
able  to  take  us  away  in  the  autumn  for  six  weeks 
by  the  sea  in  Wales,  the  expenses  of  this  tour 
being  paid  for  by  a  professional  engagement, 
so  that  my  seventh  birthday  was  spent  in  an 
ecstasy  of  happiness,  on  golden  sands,  under 
a  brilliant  sky,  and  in  sight  of  the  glorious  azure 
ocean  beating  in  from  an  infinitude  of  melting 
horizons.  Here,  too,  my  Mother,  perched  in  a 
nook  of  the  high  rocks,  surveyed  the  west,  and 
forgot  for  a  little  while  her  weakness  and  the 
gnawing,  grinding  pain. 

61 


FATHER   AND   SON 

But  in  October,  our  sorrows  seemed  to  close 
in  upon  us.  We  went  back  to  London,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  their  married  life,  my  parents 
were  divided.  My  Mother  was  now  so  seriously 
weaker  that  the  omnibus- journeys  to  Pimlico  be- 
came impossible.  My  father  could  not  leave  his 
work,  and  so  my  mother  and  I  had  to  take  a 
gloomy  lodging  close  to  the  doctor's  house.  The 
experiences  upon  which  I  presently  entered  were 
of  a  nature  in  which  childhood  rarely  takes  a  part. 
I  was  now  my  Mother's  sole  and  ceaseless  com- 
panion; the  silent  witness  of  her  suffering,  of  her 
patience,  of  her  vain  and  delusive  attempts  to 
obtain  alleviation  of  her  anguish.  For  nearly 
three  months  I  breathed  the  atmosphere  of  pain, 
saw  no  other  sight,  heard  no  other  sounds,  thought 
no  other  thoughts,  than  those  which  accompany 
physical  suffering  and  weariness.  To  my  mem- 
ory these  weeks  seem  years;  I  have  no  measure 
of  their  monotony.  The  lodgings  were  bare  and 
yet  tawdry;  out  of  dingy  windows  we  looked 
from  a  second  storey  upon  a  dull  small  street, 
drowned  in  autumnal  fog.  My  Father  came  to 
see  us  when  he  could,  but  otherwise,  save  when 
we  made  our  morning  expedition  to  the  doctor, 
or  when  a  slatternly  girl  waited  upon  us  with  our 
distasteful  meals,  we  were  alone, — without  any 
other  occupation  than  to  look  forward  to  that 

62 


FATHER   AND   SON 

occasional  abatement  of  suffering  which  was  what 
we  hoped  for  most. 

It  is  difficult  for  me  to  recollect  how  these  in- 
terminable hours  were  spent.  But  I  read  aloud 
in  a  great  part  of  them.  I  have  now  in  my 
mind's  cabinet  a  picture  of  my  chair  turned 
towards  the  window,  partly  that  I  might  see  the 
book  more  distinctly,  partly  not  to  see  quite  so 
distinctly  that  dear  patient  figure  rocking  on  her 
sofa,  or  leaning,  like  a  funereal  statue,  like  a  muse 
upon  a  monument,  with  her  head  on  her  arms 
against  the  mantelpiece.  I  read  the  Bible  every 
day,  and  at  much  length;  also, — with  I  cannot 
but  think  some  praiseworthy  patience, — a  book 
of  incommunicable  dreariness,  called  Newton's 
"Thoughts  on  the  Apocalypse."  Newton  bore  a 
great  resemblance  to  my  old  aversion,  Jukes,  and  I 
made  a  sort  of  playful  compact  with  my  Mother 
that  if  I  read  aloud  a  certain  number  of  pages  out 
of  "Thoughts  on  the  Apocalypse,"  as  a  reward  I 
should  be  allowed  to  recite  "my  own  favourite 
hymns."  Among  these  there  was  one  which  united 
her  suffrages  with  mine.  Both  of  us  extremely 
admired  the  piece  by  Toplady  which  begins: — 

What  though  my  frail  eyelids  refuse 

Continual  watchings  to  keep, 
And,  punctual  as  midnight  renews, 

Demand  the  refreshment  of  sleep. 

63 


FATHER   AND   SON 

To  this  day  I  cannot  repeat  this  hymn  without 
a  sense  of  poignant  emotion,  nor  can  I  pretend 
to  decide  how  much  of  this  is  due  to  its  merit 
and  how  much  to  the  peculiar  nature  of  the  mem- 
ories it  recalls.  But  it  might  be  as  rude  as  I 
genuinely  think  it  to  be  skilful,  and  I  should  con- 
tinue to  regard  it  as  a  sacred  poem.  Among  all 
my  childish  memories  none  is  clearer  than  my 
looking  up,  after  reading,  in  my  high  treble, 

Kind  Author  and  Ground  of  my  hope, 

Thee,  thee  for  my  God  I  avow; 
My  glad  Ebenezer  set  up, 

And  own  Thou  hast  help'd  me  till  now; 

I  muse  on  the  years  that  are  past, 
Wherein  my  defence  Thou  hast  prov'd, 

Nor  wilt  Thou  relinquish  at  last 
A  sinner  so  signally  lov'd, 

and  hearing  my  Mother,  her  eyes  brimming  with 
tears  and  her  alabastrine  fingers  tightly  locked 
together,  murmur  in  unconscious  repetition: 

Nor  wilt  Thou  relinquish  at  last 
A  sinner  so  signally  lov'd. 

In  our  lodgings  at  Pimlico  I  came  across  a 
piece  of  verse  which  exercised  a  lasting  influence 
on  my  taste.  It  was  called  "The  Cameronian's 
Dream,"  and  it  had  been  written  by  a  certain 
James  Hyslop,  a  schoolmaster  on  a  man-of-war. 

64 


FATHER   AND   SON 

I  do  not  know  how  it  came  into  my  possession, 
but  I  remember  it  was  adorned  by  an  extremely 
dim  and  ill-executed  wood-cut  of  a  lake  surrounded 
by  mountains,  with  tombstones  in  the  foreground. 
This  lugubrious  frontispiece  positively  fascinated 
me,  and  lent  a  further  gloomy  charm  to  the 
ballad  itself.  It  was  in  this  copy  of  mediocre 
verses  that  the  sense  of  romance  first  appealed  to 
me,  the  kind  of  nature-romance  which  is  con- 
nected with  hills,  and  lakes,  and  the  picturesque 
costumes  of  old  times.  The  following  stanza, 
for  instance,  brought  a  revelation  to  me: 

Twas  a  dream  of  those  ages  of  darkness  and  blood, 
When  the  minister's  home  was  the  mountain  and  wood; 
When  in  Wellwood's  dark  valley  the  standard  of  Zion, 
All  bloody  and  torn,  'mong  the  heather  was  lying. 

I  persuaded  my  Mother  to  explain  to  me  what 
it  was  all  about,  and  she  told  me  of  the  affliction 
of  the  Scottish  saints,  their  flight  to  the  waters 
and  the  wilderness,  their  cruel  murder  while  they 
were  singing  "their  last  song  to  the  God  of  Sal- 
vation." I  was  greatly  fired,  and  the  following 
stanza,  in  particular,  reached  my  ideal  of  the 
sublime : 

The  muskets  were  flashing,  the  blue  swords  were  gleaming, 
The  helmets  were  cleft,  and  the  red  blood  was  streaming, 
The  heavens  grew  dark,  and  the  thunder  was  rolling, 
When  in  Wellwood's  dark  muirlands  the  mighty  were  falling. 

65 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Twenty  years  later  I  met  with  the  only  other 
person  whom  I  have  ever  encountered  who  had 
even  heard  of  "The  Cameronian's  Dream."  This 
was  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  who  had  been  greatly 
struck  by  it  when  he  was  about  my  age.  Prob- 
ably the  same  ephemeral  edition  of  it  reached,  at 
the  same  time,  each  of  our  pious  households. 

As  my  Mother's  illness  progressed,  she  could 
neither  sleep,  save  by  the  use  of  opiates,  nor  rest, 
except  in  a  sloping  posture,  propped  up  by  many 
pillows.  It  was  my  great  joy,  and  a  pleasant 
diversion,  to  be  allowed  to  shift,  beat  up,  and  re- 
arrange these  pillows,  a  task  which  I  learned  to 
accomplish  not  too  awkwardly.  Her  sufferings, 
I  believe,  were  principally  caused  by  the  violence 
of  the  medicaments  to  which  her  doctor,  who 
was  trying  a  new  and  fantastic  "cure,"  thought 
it  proper  to  subject  her.  Let  those  who  take  a 
pessimistic  view  of  our  social  progress  ask  them- 
selves whether  such  tortures  could  to-day  be  in- 
flicted on  a  delicate  patient,  or  whether  that  pa- 
tient would  be  allowed  to  exist,  in  the  greatest 
misery,  in  a  lodging  with  no  professional  nurse 
to  wait  upon  her,  and  with  no  companion  but  a 
little  helpless  boy  of  seven  years  of  age.  Time 
passes  smoothly  and  swiftly,  and  we  do  not  per- 
ceive the  mitigations  which  he  brings  in  his  hands. 
Everywhere  in  the  whole  system  of  human  life, 

66 


FATHER   AND   SON 

improvements,  alleviations,  ingenious  appliances 
and  humane  inventions,  are  being  introduced  to 
lessen  the  great  burden  of  suffering.  If  we  were 
suddenly  transplanted  into  the  world  of  only  fifty 
years  ago,  we  should  be  startled  and  even  horror- 
stricken  by  the  wretchedness  to  which  the  step 
backwards  would  re-introduce  us.  It  was  in  the 
very  year  of  which  I  am  speaking,  a  year  of  which 
my  personal  memories  are  still  vivid,  that  Sir 
James  Simpson  received  the  Monthyon  prize  as  a 
recognition  of  his  discovery  of  the  use  of  anaes- 
thetics. Can  our  thoughts  embrace  the  mitiga- 
tion of  human  torment  which  the  application  of 
chloroform  alone  has  caused?  My  early  experi- 
ences, I  confess,  made  me  singularly  conscious, 
at  an  age  when  one  should  know  nothing  about 
these  things,  of  that  torrent  of  sorrow  and  anguish 
and  terror  which  flows  under  all  the  footsteps  of 
man.  Within  my  childish  conscience,  already 
some  dim  inquiry  was  awake  as  to  the  meaning 
of  this  mystery  of  pain — 


The  floods  of  the  tears  meet  and  gather; 

The  sound  of  them  all  grows  like  thunder; 
O  into  what  bosom  I  wonder, 
Is  poured  the  whole  sorrow  of  years  ? 
For  Eternity  only  seems  keeping 
Account  of  the  great  human  weeping; 
May  God  then,  the  Maker  and  Father, 
May  He  find  a  place  for  the  tears! 

67 


FATHER   AND   SON 

In  my  Mother's  case,  the  savage  treatment 
did  no  good;  it  had  to  be  abandoned,  and  a  day 
or  two  before  Christmas,  while  the  fruits  were 
piled  in  the  shop-fronts  and  the  butchers  were 
shouting  outside  their  forests  of  carcases,  my 
Father  brought  us  back  in  a  cab  through  the 
streets  to  Islington,  a  feeble  and  languishing  com- 
pany. Our  invalid  bore  the  journey  fairly  well, 
enjoying  the  air,  and  pointing  out  to  me  the 
glittering  evidences  of  the  season,  but  we  paid 
heavily  for  her  little  entertainment,  since,  at  her 
earnest  wish  the  window  of  the  cab  having  been 
kept  open,  she  caught  a  cold,  which  became,  in- 
deed, the  technical  cause  of  a  death  that  no  ap- 
plications could  now  have  long  delayed. 

Yet  she  lingered  with  us  six  weeks  more,  and 
during  this  time  I  again  relapsed,  very  naturally, 
into  solitude.  She  now  had  the  care  of  a  prac- 
tised woman,  one  of  the  " saints"  from  the 
Chapel,  and  I  was  only  permitted  to  pay  brief 
visits  to  her  bedside.  That  I  might  not  be  kept 
indoors  all  day  and  every  day,  a  man,  also  con- 
nected with  the  meeting-house,  was  paid  a  trifle 
to  take  me  out  for  a  walk  each  morning.  This 
person,  who  was  by  turns  familiar  and  truculent, 
was  the  object  of  my  intense  dislike.  Our  re- 
lations became,  in  the  truest  sense,  " forced"; 
I  was  obliged  to  walk  by  his  side,  but  I  held  that 

68 


FATHER   AND   SON 

I  had  no  further  responsibility  to  be  agreeable, 
and  after  a  while  I  ceased  to  speak  to  him,  or  to 
answer  his  remarks.  On  one  occasion,  poor 
dreary  man,  he  met  a  friend  and  stopped  to  chat 
with  him.  I  considered  this  act  to  have  dissolved 
the  bond;  I  skipped  lightly  from  his  side,  exam- 
ined several  shop-windows  which  I  had  been  for- 
bidden to  look  into,  made  several  darts  down 
courts  and  up  passages,  and,  finally,  after  a  de- 
lightful morning,  returned  home,  having  known 
my  directions  perfectly.  My  official  conductor, 
in  a  shocking  condition  of  fear,  was  crouching 
by  the  area-rails  looking  up  and  down  the  street. 
He  darted  upon  me,  in  a  great  rage,  to  know 
"what  I  meant  by  it?"  I  drew  myself  up  as 
tall  as  I  could,  hissed  "Blind  leader  of  the  blind !" 
at  him,  and  with  this  inappropriate  (but  very 
effective)  Parthian  shot,  slipped  into  the  house. 
When  it  was  quite  certain  that  no  alleviations 
and  no  medical  care  could  prevent,  or  even  any 
longer  postpone,  the  departure  of  my  Mother,  I 
believe  that  my  future  conduct  became  the  ob- 
ject of  her  greatest  and  her  most  painful  solici- 
tude. She  said  to  my  Father  that  the  worst 
trial  of  her  faith  came  from  the  feeling  that  she 
was  called  upon  to  leave  that  child  whom  she  had 
so  carefully  trained  from  his  earliest  infancy  for 
the  peculiar  service  of  the  Lord,  without  any 


FATHER   AND   SON 

knowledge  of  what  his  further  course  would  be. 
In  many  conversations,  she  most  tenderly  and 
closely  urged  my  Father,  who,  however,  needed 
no  urging,  to  watch  with  unceasing  care  over  my 
spiritual  welfare.  As  she  grew  nearer  her  end, 
it  was  observed  that  she  became  calmer,  and  less 
troubled  by  fears  about  me.  The  intensity  of  her 
prayers  and  hopes  seemed  to  have  a  prevailing 
force ;  it  would  have  been  a  sin  to  doubt  that  such 
supplications,  such  confidence  and  devotion,  such 
an  emphasis  of  will,  should  not  be  rewarded  by 
an  answer  from  above  in  the  affirmative.  She 
was  able,  she  said,  to  leave  me  "in  the  hands  of 
her  loving  Lord,"  or,  on  another  occasion,  "to 
the  care  of  her  covenant  God." 

Although  her  faith  was  so  strong  and  simple, 
my  Mother  possessed  no  quality  of  the  mystic. 
She  never  pretended  to  any  visionary  gifts,  be- 
lieved not  at  all  in  dreams  or  portents,  and  en- 
couraged nothing  in  herself  or  others  which  was 
superstitious  or  fantastic.  In  order  to  realise  her 
condition  of  mind,  it  is  necessary,  I  think,  to  ac- 
cept the  view  that  she  had  formed  a  definite  con- 
ception of  the  absolute,  unmodified  and  histori- 
cal veracity,  in  its  direct  and  obvious  sense,  of 
every  statement  contained  within  the  covers  of 
the  Bible.  For  her,  and  for  my  Father,  nothing 
was  symbolic,  nothing  allegorical  or  allusive  in 

70 


FATHER   AND   SON 

any  part  of  Scripture,  except  what  was,  in  so 
many  words,  proffered  as  a  parable  or  a  picture. 
Pushing  this  to  its  extreme  limit,  and  allowing 
nothing  for  the  changes  of  scene  or  time  or  race, 
my  parents  read  injunctions  to  the  Corinthian 
converts  without  any  suspicion  that  what  was 
apposite  in  dealing  with  half-breed  Achaian  col- 
onists of  the  first  century  might  not  exactly  ap- 
ply to  respectable  English  men  and  women  of 
the  nineteenth.  They  took  it,  text  by  text,  as 
if  no  sort  of  difference  existed  between  the  sur- 
roundings of  Trimalchion's  feast  and  those  of  a 
City  dinner.  Both  of  my  parents,  I  think,  were 
devoid  of  sympathetic  imagination;  in  my  Father, 
I  am  sure,  it  was  singularly  absent.  Hence,  al- 
though their  faith  was  so  strenuous  that  many 
persons  might  have  called  it  fanatical,  there  was 
no  mysticism  about  them.  They  went  rather  to 
the  opposite  extreme,  to  the  cultivation  of  a 
rigid  and  iconoclastic  literalness. 

This  was  curiously  exemplified  in  the  very 
lively  interest  which  they  both  took  in  what  is 
called  "the  interpretation  of  prophecy,"  and  par- 
ticularly in  unwrapping  the  dark  sayings  bound 
up  in  the  Book  of  Revelation.  In  their  impar- 
tial survey  of  the  Bible,  they  came  to  this  col- 
lection of  solemn  and  splendid  visions,  sinister 
and  obscure,  and  they  had  no  intention  of  allow- 

71 


FATHER   AND   SON 

ing  these  to  be  merely  stimulating  to  the  fancy, 
or  vaguely  doctrinal  in  symbol.  When  they  read 
of  seals  broken  and  of  vials  poured  forth,  of  the 
star  which  was  called  Wormwood  that  fell  from 
Heaven,  and  of  men  whose  hair  was  as  the  hair  of 
women,  and  their  teeth  as  the  teeth  of  lions,  they 
did  not  admit  for  a  moment  that  these  vivid 
mental  pictures  were  of  a  poetic  character,  but  they 
regarded  them  as  positive  statements,  in  guarded 
language,  describing  events  which  were  to  happen, 
and  could  be  recognised  when  they  did  happen. 
It  was  the  explanation,  the  perfectly  prosaic  and 
positive  explanation,  of  all  these  wonders  which 
drew  them  to  study  the  Jukeses  and  the  Newtons 
whose  books  they  so  much  enjoyed.  They  were 
helped  by  these  guides  to  recognise  in  wild  Orien- 
tal visions  direct  statements  regarding  Napoleon 
III.  and  Pope  Pius  IX.  and  the  King  of  Pied- 
mont, historic  figures  which  they  conceived  as 
foreshadowed,  in  language  which  admitted  of 
plain  interpretation,  under  the  names  of  denizens 
of  Babylon  and  companions  of  the  Wild  Beast. 

My  Father  was  in  the  habit  of  saying,  in  later 
years,  that  no  small  element  in  his  wedded  happi- 
ness was  the  fact  that  my  Mother  and  he  were  of 
one  mind  in  the  interpretation  of  Sacred  Prophecy. 
Looking  back,  it  appears  to  me  that  this  unusual 
mental  exercise  was  almost  their  only  relaxation, 

72 


FATHER   AND   SON 

and  that  in  their  economy  it  took  the  place  which 
is  taken,  in  profaner  families,  by  cards  or  the 
piano.  It  was  a  distraction;  it  took  them  com- 
pletely out  of  themselves.  During  those  melan- 
choly weeks  at  Pimlico,  I  read  aloud  another 
work  of  the  same  nature  as  those  of  Newton  and 
Jukes,  the  "Horse  Apocalypticae  "  of  a  Mr.  Elliott. 
This  was  written,  I  think,  in  a  less  disagreeable 
style,  and  certainly  it  was  less  opaquely  obscure 
to  me.  My  recollection  distinctly  is  that  when 
my  Mother  could  endure  nothing  else,  the  argu- 
ments of  this  book  took  her  thoughts  away  from 
her  pain  and  lifted  her  spirits.  Elliott  saw  "the 
queenly  arrogance  of  Popery"  everywhere,  and 
believed  that  the  very  last  days  of  Babylon  the 
Great  were  come.  Lest  I  say  what  may  be 
thought  extravagant,  let  me  quote  what  my 
Father  wrote  in  his  diary  at  the  time  of  my 
Mother's  death.  He  said  that  the  thought  that 
Rome  was  doomed  (as  seemed  not  impossible 
in  1857)  so  affected  my  Mother  that  it  "irradi- 
ated her  dying  hours  with  an  assurance  that  was 
like  the  light  of  the  Morning  Star,  the  harbinger 
of  the  rising  sun." 

After  our  return  to  Islington,  there  was  a  com- 
plete change  in  my  relation  to  my  Mother.  At 
Pimlico,  I  had  been  all-important,  her  only  com- 
panion, her  friend,  her  confidant.    But  now  that 

73 


FATHER   AND   SON 

she  was  at  home  again,  people  and  things  com- 
bined to  separate  me  from  her.  Now,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  no  longer  slept  in  her 
room,  no  longer  sank  to  sleep  under  her  kiss,  no 
longer  saw  her  mild  eyes  smile  on  me  with  the 
earliest  sunshine.  Twice  a  day,  after  breakfast 
and  before  I  went  to  rest,  I  was  brought  to  her 
bedside;  but  we  were  never  alone,  other  people, 
sometimes  strange  people,  were  there.  We  had 
no  cosy  talk ;  often  she  was  too  weak  to  do  more 
than  pat  my  hand ;  her  loud  and  almost  constant 
cough  terrified  and  harassed  me.  I  felt,  as  I 
stood,  awkwardly  and  shyly,  by  her  high  bed, 
that  I  had  shrunken  into  a  very  small  and  in- 
significant figure,  that  she  was  floating  out  of 
my  reach,  that  all  things,  but  I  knew  not  what 
nor  how,  were  coming  to  an  end.  She  herself 
was  not  herself ;  her  head  that  used  to  be  held  so 
erect,  now  rolled  or  sank  upon  the  pillow;  the 
sparkle  was  all  extinguished  from  those  bright, 
dear  eyes.  I  could  not  understand  it;  I  med- 
itated long,  long  upon  it  all  in  my  infantile 
darkness,  in  the  garret,  or  in  the  little  slip  of  a 
cold  room  where  my  bed  was  now  placed ;  and  a 
great,  blind  anger  against  I  knew  not  what 
awakened  in  my  soul. 

The  two  retreats  which  I  have  mentioned  were 
now  all  that  were  left  to  me.    In  the  back- 

74 


FATHER   AND   SON 

parlour  some  one  from  outside  gave  me  occa- 
sional lessons,  of  a  desultory  character.  The 
breakfast-room  was  often  haunted  by  visitors, 
unknown  to  me  by  face  or  name ;  ladies,  who  used 
to  pity  me  and  even  to  pet  me,  until  I  became 
nimble  in  escaping  from  their  caresses.  Every- 
thing seemed  to  be  unfixed,  uncertain ;  it  was  like 
being  on  the  platform  of  a  railway-station  waiting 
for  a  train.  In  all  this  time,  the  agitated,  nervous 
presence  of  my  Father,  whose  pale  face  was  per- 
manently drawn  with  anxiety,  added  to  my  per- 
turbation, and  I  became  miserable,  stupid,  as  if 
I  had  lost  my  way  in  a  cold  fog. 

Had  I  been  older  and  more  intelligent,  of 
course,  it  might  have  been  of  him  and  not  of 
myself  that  I  should  have  been  thinking.  As 
I  now  look  back  upon  that  tragic  time,  it  is  for 
him  that  my  heart  bleeds, — for  them  both,  so 
singularly  fitted  as  they  were  to  support  and  cheer 
one  another  in  an  existence  which  their  own  in- 
nate and  cultivated  characteristics  had  made 
little  hospitable  to  other  sources  of  comfort. 
This  is  not  to  be  dwelt  on  here.  But  what  must 
be  recorded  was  the  extraordinary  tranquillity, 
the  serene  and  sensible  resignation,  with  which 
at  length  my  parents  faced  the  awful  hour.  Lan- 
guage cannot  utter  what  they  suffered,  but  there 
was  no  rebellion,  no  repining;  in  their  case  even 

75 


FATHER   AND   SON 

an  atheist  might  admit  that  the  overpowering 
miracle  of  grace  was  mightily  efficient. 

It  seems  almost  cruel  to  the  memory  of  their 
opinions  that  the  only  words  which  rise  to  my 
mind,  the  only  ones  which  seem  in  the  least  degree 
adequate  to  describe  the  attitude  of  my  parents, 
had  fallen  from  the  pen  of  one,  whom,  in  their 
want  of  imaginative  sympathy,  they  had  regard- 
ed as  anathema.  But  John  Henry  Newman  might 
have  come  from  the  contemplation  of  my  Mother's 
death-bed,  when  he  wrote:  "All  the  trouble  which 
the  world  inflicts  upon  us,  and  which  flesh  cannot 
but  feel, — sorrow,  pain,  care,  bereavement, — 
these  avail  not  to  disturb  the  tranquillity  and  the 
intensity  with  which  faith  gazes  at  the  Divine 
Majesty."  It  was  "tranquillity,"  it  was  not  the 
rapture  of  the  mystic.  Almost  in  the  last  hour 
of  her  life,  urged  to  confess  her  "joy"  in  the 
Lord,  my  Mother,  rigidly  honest,  meticulous  in 
self-analysis,  as  ever,  replied:  "I  have  peace,  but 
not  joy.  It  would  not  do  to  go  into  eternity  with 
a  he  in  my  mouth." 

When  the  very  end  approached,  and  her  mind 
was  growing  clouded,  she  gathered  her  strength 
together  to  say  to  my  Father,  "I  shall  walk 
with  Him  in  white.  Won't  you  take  your  lamb 
and  walk  with  me?"  Confused  with  sorrow  and 
alarm,  my  Father  failed  to  understand  her  mean- 

76 


FATHER   AND   SON 

ing.  She  became  agitated,  and  she  repeated 
two  or  three  times:  "Take  our  lamb,  and  walk 
with  me!"  Then  my  Father  comprehended,  and 
pressed  me  forward;  her  hand  fell  softly  upon 
mine  and  she  seemed  content.  Thus  was  my 
dedication,  that  had  begun  in  my  cradle,  sealed 
with  the  most  solemn,  the  most  poignant  and 
irresistible  insistence,  at  the  death-bed  of  the 
holiest  and  purest  of  women.  But  what  a  weight, 
intolerable  as  the  burden  of  Atlas,  to  lay  on  the 
shoulders  of  a  little  fragile  child! 


77 


CHAPTER  IV 

Certainly  the  preceding  year,  the  seventh  of 
my  life,  had  been  weighted  for  us  with  com- 
prehensive disaster.  I  have  not  yet  mentioned 
that,  at  the  beginning  of  my  Mother's  fatal  illness, 
misfortune  came  upon  her  brothers.  I  have  never 
known  the  particulars  of  their  ruin,  but,  I  believe 
in  consequence  of  A.'s  unsuccessful  speculations, 
and  of  the  fact  that  E.  had  allowed  the  use  of  his 
name  as  a  surety,  both  my  uncles  were  obliged  to 
fly  from  their  creditors,  and  take  refuge  in  Paris. 
This  happened  just  when  our  need  was  the  sorest, 
and  this,  together  with  the  poignancy  of  knowing 
that  their  sister's  devoted  labours  for  them  had 
been  all  in  vain,  added  to  their  unhappiness. 
It  was  doubtless  also  the  reason  why,  having  left 
England,  they  wrote  to  us  no  more,  carefully 
concealing  from  us  even  their  address,  so  that 
when  my  Mother  died,  my  Father  was  unable  to 
communicate  with  them.  I  fear  that  they  fell 
into  dire  distress;  before  very  long  we  learned 

78 


FATHER   AND   SON 

that  A.  had  died,  but  it  was  fifteen  years  more 
before  we  heard  anything  of  E.,  whose  life  had 
at  length  been  preserved  by  the  kindness  of  an 
old  servant,  but  whose  mind  was  now  so  clouded 
that  he  could  recollect  little  or  nothing  of  the 
past;  and  soon  he  also  died.  Amiable,  gentle, 
without  any  species  of  practical  ability,  they 
were  quite  unfitted  to  struggle  with  the  world, 
which  had  touched  them  only  to  wreck  them. 

The  flight  of  my  uncles  at  this  particular 
juncture  left  me  without  a  relative  on  my  Mother's 
side  at  the  time  of  her  death.  This  isolation 
threw  my  Father  into  a  sad  perplexity.  His  only 
obvious  source  of  income — but  it  happened  to 
be  a  remarkably  hopeful  one — was  an  engagement 
to  deliver  a  long  series  of  lectures  on  marine  natural 
history  throughout  the  north  and  centre  of  Eng- 
land. These  lectures  were  an  entire  novelty; 
nothing  like  them  had  been  offered  to  the  pro- 
vincial public  before ;  and  the  fact  that  the  newly- 
invented  marine  aquarium  was  the  fashionable 
toy  of  the  moment  added  to  their  attraction. 
My  Father  was  bowed  down  by  sorrow  and  care, 
but  he  was  not  broken.  His  intellectual  forces 
were  at  their  height,  and  so  was  his  popularity 
as  an  author.  The  lectures  were  to  begin  in 
March;  my  Mother  was  buried  on  the  13th  of 
February.    It  seemed  at  first,  in  the  inertia  of 

79 


FATHER   AND   SON 

bereavement,  to  be  all  beyond  his  powers  to  make 
the  supreme  effort,  but  the  wholesome  prick  of 
need  urged  him  on.  It  was  a  question  of  paying 
for  food  and  clothes,  of  keeping  a  roof  above  our 
heads.  The  captain  of  a  vessel  in  a  storm  must 
navigate  his  ship,  although  his  wife  lies  dead  in 
the  cabin.  That  was  my  Father's  position  in 
the  spring  of  1857;  he  had  to  stimulate,  instruct, 
amuse  large  audiences  of  strangers,  and  seem 
gay,  although  affliction  and  loneliness  had  settled 
in  his  heart.    He  had  to  do  this,  or  starve. 

But  the  difficulty  still  remained.  During  these 
months  what  was  to  become  of  me?  My  Father 
could  not  take  me  with  him  from  hotel  to  hotel 
and  from  lecture-hall  to  lecture-hall.  Nor  could 
he  leave  me,  as  people  leave  the  domestic  cat,  in 
an  empty  house  for  the  neighbours  to  feed  at 
intervals.  The  dilemma  threatened  to  be  insur- 
mountable, when  suddenly  there  descended  upon 
us  a  kind,  but  little-known,  paternal  cousin  from 
the  west  of  England,  who  had  heard  of  our 
calamities.  This  lady  had  a  large  family  of  her 
own  at  Bristol;  she  offered  to  find  room  in  it 
for  me  so  long  as  ever  my  Father  should  be  away 
in  the  north,  and  when  my  Father,  bewildered 
by  so  much  goodness,  hesitated,  she  came  up 
to  London  and  carried  me  forcibly  away  in  a 
whirlwind  of  good-nature.     Her  benevolence  was 

80 


FATHER   AND   SON 

quite  spontaneous;  and  I  am  not  sure  that 
she  had  not  added  to  it  already  by  helping  to 
nurse  our  beloved  sufferer  through  part  of  her 
illness.  Of  that  I  am  not  positive,  but  I  recollect 
very  clearly  her  snatching  me  from  our  cold  and 
desolate  hearthstone,  and  carrying  me  off  to  her 
cheerful  house  at  Clifton. 

Here,  for  the  first  time,  when  half  through 
my  eighth  year,  I  was  thrown  into  the  society 
of  young  people.  My  cousins  were  none  of 
them,  I  believe,  any  longer  children,  but  they 
were  youths  and  maidens  busily  engaged  in 
various  personal  interests,  all  collected  in  a  hive 
of  wholesome  family  energy.  Everybody  was 
very  kind  to  me,  and  I  sank  back,  after  the 
strain  of  so  many  months,  into  mere  childhood 
again.  This  long  visit  to  my  cousins  at  Clifton 
must  have  been  very  delightful:  I  am  dimly 
aware  that  it  was:  yet  I  remember  but  few  of 
its  incidents.  My  memory,  so  clear  and  vivid 
about  earlier  solitary  times,  now  in  all  this  society 
becomes  blurred  and  vague.  I  recollect  certain 
pleasures;  being  taken,  for  instance,  to  a  menag- 
erie, and  having  a  practical  joke,  in  the  worst 
taste,  played  upon  me  by  the  pelican.  One  of 
my  cousins,  who  was  a  medical  student,  showed 
me  a  pistol,  and  helped  me  to  fire  it;  he  smoked 
a  pipe,  and  I  was  oddly  conscious  that  both  the 

81 


FATHER   AND   SON 

firearm  and  the  tobacco  were  definitely  hostile 
to  my  " dedication."  My  girl-cousins  took  turns 
in  putting  me  to  bed,  and  on  cold  nights,  or  when 
they  were  in  a  hurry,  allowed  me  to  say  my  prayer 
under  the  bed-clothes  instead  of  kneeling  at  a 
chair.  The  result  of  this  was  further  spiritual 
laxity,  because  I  could  not  help  going  to  sleep 
before  the  prayer  was  ended. 

The  visit  to  Clifton  was,  in  fact,  a  blessed 
interval  in  my  strenuous  childhood.  It  probably 
prevented  my  nerves  from  breaking  down  under 
the  pressure  of  the  previous  months.  The  Clifton 
family  was  God-fearing,  in  a  quiet,  sensible  way, 
but  there  was  a  total  absence  of  all  the  intensity 
and  compulsion  of  our  religious  life  at  Islington. 
I  was  not  encouraged — I  even  remember  that  I 
was  gently  snubbed — when  I  rattled  forth,  parrot- 
fashion,  the  conventional  phraseology  of  "the 
saints."  For  a  short,  enchanting  period  of 
respite,  I  lived  the  life  of  an  ordinary  little  boy, 
relapsing,  to  a  degree  which  would  have  filled  my 
Father  with  despair,  into  childish  thoughts  and 
childish  language.  The  result  was  that  of  this 
little  happy  breathing-space  I  have  nothing  to 
report.  Vague,  half-blind  remembrances  of  walks, 
with  my  tall  cousins  waving  like  trees  above  me, 
pleasant  noisy  evenings  in  a  great  room  on  the 
ground-floor,  faint  silver-points  of  excursions  into 

82 


FATHER   AND   SON 

the  country,  all  this  is  the  very  pale  and  shadowy 
testimony  to  a  brief  interval  of  healthy,  happy, 
child-life,  when  my  hard-driven  soul  was  allowed 
to  have,  for  a  little  while,  no  history. 

The  life  of  a  child  is  so  brief,  its  impressions  are 
so  illusory  and  fugitive,  that  it  is  as  difficult  to 
record  its  history  as  it  would  be  to  design  a  morn- 
ing cloud  sailing  before  the  wind.  It  is  short,  as 
we  count  shortness  in  after  years,  when  the  drag 
of  lead  pulls  down  to  earth  the  foot  that  used  to 
nutter  with  a  winged  impetuosity,  and  to  float 
with  the  pulse  of  Hermes.  But  in  memory,  my 
childhood  was  long,  long  with  interminable  hours, 
hours  with  the  pale  cheek  pressed  against  the 
window  pane,  hours  of  mechanical  and  repeated 
lonely  " games,"  which  had  lost  their  savour,  and 
were  kept  going  by  sheer  inertness.  Not  unhappy, 
not  fretful,  but  long, — long,  long.  It  seems  to  me, 
as  I  look  back  to  the  life  in  the  motherless  Isling- 
ton house,  as  I  resumed  it  in  that  slow  eighth 
year  of  my  life,  that  time  had  ceased  to  move. 
There  was  a  whole  age  between  one  tick  of  the 
eight-day  clock  in  the  hall,  and  the  next  tick. 
When  the  milkman  went  his  rounds  in  our  grey 
street,  with  his  eldritch  scream  over  the  top  of  each 
set  of  area  railings,  it  seemed  as  though  he  would 
never  disappear  again.  There  was  no  past  and 
no  future  for  me,  and  the  present  felt  as  though 

83 


FATHER   AND   SON 

it  were  sealed  up  in  a  Leyden  jar.  Even  my 
dreams  were  interminable,  and  hung  stationary 
from  the  nightly  sky. 

At  this  time,  the  street  was  my  theatre,  and 
I  spent  long  periods,  as  I  have  said,  leaning  against 
the  window.  I  feel  now  the  coldness  of  the  pane, 
and  the  feverish  heat  that  was  produced,  by  con- 
trast, in  the  orbit  round  the  eye.  Now  and  then 
amusing  things  happened.  The  onion-man  was 
a  joy  long  waited  for.  This  worthy  was  a  tall 
and  bony  Jersey  Protestant  with  a  raucous  voice, 
who  strode  up  our  street  several  times  a  week, 
carrying  a  yoke  across  his  shoulders,  from  the 
ends  of  which  hung  ropes  of  onions.  He  used 
to  shout,  at  abrupt  intervals,  in  a  tone  which 
might  wake  the  dead: 

Here's  your  rope.  .  .  . 
To  hang  the  Pope.  .  .  . 
And  a  penn'orth  of  cheese  to  choke  him. 

The  cheese  appeared  to  be  legendary;  he  sold 
only  onions.  My  Father  did  not  eat  onions, 
but  he  encouraged  this  terrible  fellow,  with  his 
wild  eyes  and  long  strips  of  hair  because  of  his 
"godly  attitude  towards  the  Papacy,"  and  I 
used  to  watch  him  dart  out  of  the  front  door, 
present  his  penny,  and  retire,  graciously  waving 
back  the  proffered  onion.    On  the  other  hand, 

84 


FATHER   AND   SON 

my  Father  did  not  approve  of  a  fat  sailor,  who 
was  a  constant  passer-by.  This  man,  who  was 
probably  crazed,  used  to  walk  very  slowly  up 
the  centre  of  our  street,  vociferating  with  the 
voice  of  a  bull, 

Wa-a-atch  and  pray-hay! 
Night  and  day-hay  I 

This  melancholy  admonition  was  the  entire 
business  of  his  life.  He  did  nothing  at  all  but 
walk  up  and  down  the  streets  of  Islington  ex- 
horting the  inhabitants  to  watch  and  pray.  I 
do  not  recollect  that  this  sailor-man  stopped 
to  collect  pennies,  and  my  impression  is  that  he 
was,  after  his  fashion,  a  volunteer  evangelist. 

The  tragedy  of  Mr.  Punch  was  another,  and 
a  still  greater,  delight.  I  was  never  allowed  to 
go  out  into  the  street  to  mingle  with  the  little 
crowd  which  gathered  under  the  stage,  and  as 
I  was  extremely  near-sighted,  the  impression 
I  received  was  vague.  But  when,  by  happy 
chance,  the  show  stopped  opposite  our  door,  I 
saw  enough  of  that  ancient  drama  to  be  thrilled 
with  terror  and  delight.  I  was  much  affected 
by  the  internal  troubles  of  the  Punch  family; 
I  thought  that  with  a  little  more  tact  on  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Punch  and  some  restraint  held  over 
a  temper,  naturally  violent,  by  Mr.  Punch,  a 

85 


FATHER   AND   SON 

great  deal  of  this  sad  misunderstanding  might 
have  been  prevented.  The  momentous  close, 
when  a  figure  of  shapeless  horror  appears  on  the 
stage,  and  quells  the  hitherto  undaunted  Mr. 
Punch,  was  to  me  the  bouquet  of  the  entire 
performance.  When  Mr.  Punch,  losing  his  nerve, 
points  to  this  shape  and  says  in  an  awestruck, 
squeaking  whisper,  "Who's  that?  Is  it  the 
butcher?"  and  the  stern  answer  comes,  "No,  Mr. 
Punch!"  And  then,  "Is  it  the  baker?"  "No, 
Mr.  Punch ! "  "  Who  is  it  then?  "  (this  in  a  squeak 
trembling  with  emotion  and  terror);  and  then 
the  full,  loud  reply,  booming  like  a  judgment-bell, 
"It  is  the  Devil  come  to  take  you  down  to  Hell," 
and  the  form  of  Punch,  with  kicking  legs,  sunken 
in  epilepsy  on  the  floor, — all  this  was  solemn  and 
exquisite  to  me  beyond  words.  I  was  not 
amused — I  was  deeply  moved  and  exhilarated, 
"purged,"  as  the  old  phrase  hath  it,  "with  pity 
and  terror." 

Another  joy,  in  a  lighter  key,  was  watching  a 
fantastic  old  man,  who  came  slowly  up  the  street, 
hung  about  with  drums  and  flutes  and  kites  and 
coloured  balls,  and  bearing  over  his  shoulders  a 
great  sack.  Children  and  servant-girls  used  to 
bolt  up  out  of  areas,  and  chaffer  with  this  gaudy 
person,  who  would  presently  trudge  on,  always 
repeating  the  same  set  of  words, — 

86 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Here's  your  toys 
For  girls  and  boys, 
For  bits  of  brass 
And  broken  glass, 
(these  four  lines  being  spoken  in  a  breathless  hurry) 

A  penny  or  a  vial-bottell.  .  .  . 
(this  being  drawled  out  in  an  endless  wail). 

I  was  not  allowed  to  go  forth  and  trade  with 
this  old  person,  but  sometimes  our  servant- 
maid  did,  thereby  making  me  feel  that  if  I  did 
not  hold  the  rose  of  merchandise,  I  was  very 
near  it.  My  experiences  with  my  cousins  at 
Clifton  had  given  me  the  habit  of  looking  out 
into  the  world, — even  though  it  was  only  into 
the  pale  world  of  our  quiet  street. 

My  Father  and  I  were  now  great  friends.  I 
do  not  doubt  that  he  felt  his  responsibility  to 
fill  as  far  as  might  be  the  gap  which  the  death  of 
my  Mother  had  made  in  my  existence.  I  spent 
a  large  portion  of  my  time  in  his  study,  while 
he  was  writing  or  drawing,  and  though  very 
little  conversation  passed  between  us,  I  think 
that  each  enjoyed  the  companionship  of  the 
other.  There  were  two,  and  sometimes  three 
aquaria  in  the  room,  tanks  of  sea-water,  with 
glass  sides,  inside  which  all  sorts  of  creatures 
crawled  and  swam;  these  were  sources  of  endless 
pleasure  to  me,  and  at  this  time  began  to  be 

87 


FATHER   AND   SON 

laid  upon  me  the  occasional  task  of  watching  and 
afterwards  reporting  the  habits  of  animals. 

At  other  times,  I  dragged  a  folio  volume  of  the 
"  Penny  Cyclopaedia "  up  to  the  study  with  me, 
and  sat  there  reading  successive  articles  on  such 
subjects  as  Parrots,  Parthians,  Passion-flowers, 
Passover  and  Pastry,  without  any  invidious  prefer- 
ences, all  information  being  equally  welcome, 
and  equally  fugitive.  That  something  of  all  this 
loose  stream  of  knowledge  clung  to  odd  cells 
of  the  back  of  my  brain  seems  to  be  shown  by 
the  fact  that  to  this  day,  I  occasionally  find 
myself  aware  of  some  stray  useless  fact  about 
peonies  or  pemmican  or  pepper,  which  I  can  only 
trace  back  to  the  "Penny  Cyclopaedia"  of  my 
infancy. 

It  will  be  asked  what  the  attitude  of  my  Father's 
mind  was  to  me,  and  of  mine  to  his,  as  regards 
religion,  at  this  time,  when  we  were  thrown 
together  alone  so  much.  It  is  difficult  to  reply 
with  exactitude.  Bu{;  so  far  as  the  former  is 
concerned,  I  think  that  the  extreme  violence 
of  the  spiritual  emotions  to  which  my  Father  had 
been  subjected,  had  now  been  followed  by  a 
certain  reaction.  He  had  not  changed  his  views 
in  any  respect,  and  he  was  prepared  to  work  out 
the  results  of  them  with  greater  zeal  than  ever, 
but  just  at  present  his  religious  nature,  like  his 


FATHER  AND   SON 

physical  nature,  was  tired  out  with  anxiety  and 
sorrow.  He  accepted  the  supposition  that  I  was 
entirely  with  him  in  all  respects,  so  far,  that  is  to 
say,  as  a  being  so  rudimentary  and  feeble  as  a 
little  child  could  be.  My  Mother,  in  her  last  hours, 
had  dwelt  on  our  unity  in  God;  we  were  drawn 
together,  she  said,  elect  from  the  world,  in  a 
triplicity  of  faith  and  joy.  She  had  constantly 
repeated  the  words:  "We  shall  be  one  family, 
one  song.  One  Song!  one  Family!"  My  Father, 
I  think,  accepted  this  as  a  prophecy,  he  felt  no 
doubt  of  our  triple  unity;  my  Mother  had  now 
merely  passed  before  us,  through  a  door,  into  a 
world  of  light,  where  we  should  presently  join 
her,  where  all  things  would  be  radiant  and 
blissful,  but  where  we  three  would,  in  some  un- 
known way,  be  particularly  drawn  together  in  a 
tie  of  inexpressible  benediction.  He  fretted  at 
the  delay;  he  would  fain  have  taken  me  by  the 
hand,  and  have  joined  her  in  the  realms  of  holi- 
ness and  light,  at  once,  without  this  dreary  dalli- 
ance with  earthly  cares. 

He  held  this  confidence  and  vision  steadily 
before  him,  but  nothing  availed  against  the 
melancholy  of  his  natural  state.  He  was  con- 
scious of  his  dull  and  solitary  condition,  and  he 
saw,  too,  that  it  enveloped  me.  I  think  his  heart 
was,  at  this  time,  drawn  out  towards  me  in  an 


FATHER   AND   SON 

immense  tenderness.  Sometimes,  when  the  early 
twilight  descended  upon  us  in  the  study,  and  he 
could  no  longer  peer  with  advantage  into  the 
depths  of  his  microscope,  he  would  beckon  me  to 
him  silently,  and  fold  me  closely  in  his  arms.  I 
used  to  turn  my  face  up  to  his,  patiently  and 
wonderingly,  while  the  large,  unwilling  tears 
gathered  in  the  corners  of  his  eyelids.  My 
training  had  given  me  a  preternatural  faculty 
of  stillness  and  we  would  stay  so,  without  a 
word  or  a  movement,  until  the  darkness  filled  the 
room.  And  then,  with  my  little  hand  in  his, 
we  would  walk  sedately  downstairs,  to  the 
parlour,  where  we  would  find  that  the  lamp  was 
lighted,  and  that  our  melancholy  vigil  was  ended. 
I  do  not  think  that  at  any  part  of  our  lives  my 
Father  and  I  were  drawn  so  close  to  one  another 
as  we  were  in  that  summer  of  1857.  Yet  we  seldom 
spoke  of  what  lay  so  warm  and  fragrant  between 
us,  the  flower-like  thought  of  our  Departed. 

The  visit  to  my  cousins  had  made  one  con- 
siderable change  in  me.  Under  the  old  solitary 
discipline,  my  intelligence  had  grown  at  the 
expense  of  my  sentiment.  I  was  innocent,  but 
inhuman.  The  long  suffering  and  the  death  of 
my  Mother  had  awakened  my  heart,  had  taught 
me  what  pain  was,  but  had  left  me  savage  and 
morose.    I  had  still  no  idea  of  the  relations  of 

90 


FATHER   AND   SON 

human  beings  to  one  another;  I  had  learned  no 
word  of  that  philosophy  which  comes  to  the 
children  of  the  poor  in  the  struggle  of  the  street 
and  to  the  children  of  the  well-to-do  in  the  clash 
of  the  nursery.  In  other  words,  I  had  no  human- 
ity ;  I  had  been  carefully  shielded  from  the  chance 
of  "catching"  it,  as  though  it  were  the  most 
dangerous  of  microbes.  But  now  that  I  had 
enjoyed  a  little  of  the  common  experience  of 
childhood,  a  great  change  had  come  upon  me. 
Before  I  went  to  Clifton,  my  mental  life  was  all 
interior,  a  rack  of  baseless  dream  upon  dream. 
But,  now,  I  was  eager  to  look  out  of  window,  to 
go  out  in  the  streets;  I  was  taken  with  a  curiosity 
about  human  life.  Even,  from  my  vantage  of 
the  window-pane,  I  watched  boys  and  girls  go 
by  with  an  interest  which  began  to  be  almost 
wistful. 

Still  I  continued  to  have  no  young  companions. 
But  on  summer  evenings  I  used  to  drag  my 
Father  out,  taking  the  initiative  myself,  stamping 
in  playful  impatience  at  his  irresolution,  fetching 
his  hat  and  stick,  and  waiting.  We  used  to  sally 
forth  at  last  together,  hand  in  hand,  descending 
the  Caledonian  Road,  with  all  its  shops,  as  far  as 
Mother  Shipton,  or  else  winding  among  the 
semi-genteel  squares  and  terraces  westward  by 
Copenhagen   Street,   or,   best   of  all,   mounting 

91 


FATHER   AND   SON 

to  the  Regent's  Canal,  where  we  paused  to  lean 
over  the  bridge  and  watch  flotillas  of  ducks 
steer  under  us,  or  little  white  dogs  dash,  impo- 
tently  furious,  from  stem  to  stern  of  the  great, 
lazy  barges,  painted  in  a  crude  vehemence  of 
vermilion  and  azure.  These  were  happy  hours, 
when  the  spectre  of  Religion  ceased  to  overshadow 
us  for  a  little  while,  when  my  Father  forgot  the 
Apocalypse  and  dropped  his  austere  phraseology, 
and  when  our  bass  and  treble  voices  used  to  ring 
out  together  over  some  foolish  little  jest  or  some 
mirthful  recollection  of  his  past  experiences. 
Little  soft  oases  these,  in  the  hard  desert  of  our 
sandy  spiritual  life  at  home. 

There  was  an  unbending,  too,  when  we  used 
to  sing  together,  in  my  case  very  tunelessly. 
I  had  inherited  a  plentiful  lack  of  musical  genius 
from  my  Mother,  who  had  neither  ear  nor  voice, 
and  who  had  said,  in  the  course  of  her  last  illness, 
"I  shall  sing  His  praise,  at  length,  in  strains  I 
never  could  master  here  below."  My  Father, 
on  the  other  hand,  had  some  knowledge  of  the 
principles  of  vocal  music,  although  not,  I  am 
afraid,  much  taste.  He  had  at  least  great  fond- 
ness for  singing  hymns,  in  the  manner  then  popu- 
lar with  the  Evangelicals,  very  loudly,  and  so 
slowly  that  I  used  to  count  how  many  words  I 
could  read  silently,  between  one  syllable  of  the 

92 


FATHER   AND   SON 

singing  and  another.  My  lack  of  skill  did  not 
prevent  me  from  being  zealous  at  these  vocal 
exercises,  and  my  Father  and  I  used  to  sing  lustily 
together.  The  Wesleys,  Charlotte  Elliott  ("Just 
as  I  am  without  one  plea")  and  James  Mont- 
gomery ("For  ever  with  the  Lord")  represented 
his  predilection  in  hymnology.  I  acquiesced,  but 
that  would  not  have  been  my  independent  choice. 
These  represented  the  devotional  verse  which 
made  its  direct  appeal  to  the  evangelical  mind, 
and  served  in  those  "Puseyite"  days  to  counteract 
the  High  Church  poetry  founded  on  "The  Chris- 
tian Year."  Of  that  famous  volume  I  never 
met  with  a  copy  until  I  was  grown  up,  and 
equally  unknown  in  our  circle  were  the  hymns  of 
Newman,  Faber  and  Neale. 

It  was  my  Father's  plan  from  the  first  to  keep 
me  entirely  ignorant  of  the  poetry  of  the  High 
Church,  which  deeply  offended  his  Calvinism;  he 
thought  that  religious  truth  could  be  sucked  in, 
like  mother's  milk,  from  hymns  which  were  godly 
and  sound,  and  yet  correctly  versified ;  and  I  was 
therefore  carefully  trained  in  this  direction  from 
an  early  date.  But  my  spirit  had  rebelled  against 
some  of  these  hymns,  especially  against  those 
written — a  mighty  multitude — by  Horatio  Bonar; 
naughtily  refusing  to  read  Bonar's  "I  heard  the 
voice  of  Jesus  say"  to  my  Mother  in  our  Pimlico 

93 


FATHER   AND   SON 

lodgings.  A  secret  hostility  to  this  particular 
form  of  effusion  was  already,  at  the  age  of  seven, 
beginning  to  define  itself  in  my  brain,  side  by 
side  with  an  unctuous  infantile  conformity. 

I  find  a  difficulty  in  recalling  the  precise  nature 
of  the  religious  instruction  which  my  Father  gave 
me  at  this  time.  It  was  incessant,  and  it  was 
founded  on  the  close  inspection  of  the  Bible, 
particularly  of  the  epistles  of  the  New  Testament. 
This  summer,  as  my  eighth  year  advanced,  we 
read  the  " Epistle  to  the  Hebrews"  with  very 
great  deliberation,  stopping  every  moment,  that 
my  Father  might  expound  it,  verse  by  verse. 
The  extraordinary  beauty  of  the  language, — 
for  instance,  the  matchless  cadences  and  images 
of  the  first  chapter, — made  a  certain  impression 
upon  my  imagination,  and  were  (I  think)  my 
earliest  initiation  into  the  magic  of  literature. 
I  was  incapable  of  defining  what  I  felt,  but  I 
certainly  had  a  grip  in  the  throat,  which  was  in 
its  essence  a  purely  aesthetic  emotion,  when 
my  Father  read,  in  his  pure,  large,  ringing  voice, 
such  passages  as  "The  heavens  are  the  works  of 
Thy  hands.  They  shall  perish,  but  Thou  remain- 
est,  and  they  all  shall  wax  old  as  doth  a  garment, 
and  as  a  vesture  shalt  Thou  fold  them  up,  and 
they  shall  be  changed;  but  Thou  art  the  same, 
and  Thy  years  shall  not  fail."    But  the  dialectic 

94 


FATHER   AND   SON 

parts  of  the  Epistle  puzzled  and  confused  me. 
Such  metaphysical  ideas  as  "  laying  again  the 
foundation  of  repentance  from  dead  works"  and 
"crucifying  the  Son  of  God  afresh"  were  not 
successfully  brought  down  to  the  level  of  my 
understanding. 

My  Father's  religious  teaching  to  me  was 
almost  exclusively  doctrinal.  He  did  not  ob- 
serve the  value  of  negative  education,  that  is  to 
say,  of  leaving  nature  alone  to  fill  up  the  gaps 
which  it  is  her  design  to  deal  with  at  a  later  and 
riper  date.  He  did  not,  even,  satisfy  himself 
with  those  moral  injunctions  which  should  form 
the  basis  of  infantile  discipline.  He  was  in  a 
tremendous  hurry  to  push  on  my  spiritual  growth, 
and  he  fed  me  with  theological  meat  which  it  was 
impossible  for  me  to  digest.  Some  glimmer  of  a 
suspicion  that  he  was  sailing  on  the  wrong  tack 
must,  I  should  suppose,  have  broken  in  upon  him 
when  we  had  reached  the  eighth  and  ninth  chap- 
ters of  Hebrews,  where,  addressing  readers  who 
had  been  brought  up  under  the  Jewish  dispensa- 
tion, and  had  the  formalities  of  the  Law  of 
Moses  in  their  very  blood,  the  apostle  battles 
with  their  dangerous  conservatism.  It  is  a  very 
noble  piece  of  spiritual  casuistry,  but  it  is  signally 
unfitted  for  the  comprehension  of  a  child.  Sud- 
denly, by  my  flushing  up  with  anger  and  saying, 

95 


FATHER   AND   SON 

"0  how  I  do  hate  that  Law,"  my  Father  per- 
ceived, and  paused  in  amazement  to  perceive, 
that  I  took  the  Law  to  be  a  person  of  malignant 
temper  from  whose  cruel  bondage,  and  from  whose 
intolerable  tyranny  and  unfairness,  some  excellent 
person  was  crying  out  to  be  delivered.  I  wished 
to  hit  Law  with  my  fist,  for  being  so  mean  and 
unreasonable. 

Upon  this,  of  course,  it  was  necessary  to  re- 
open the  whole  line  of  exposition.  My  Father, 
without  realising  it,  had  been  talking  on  his  own 
level,  not  on  mine,  and  now  he  condescended  to 
me.  But  without  very  great  success.  The  melo- 
dious language,  the  divine  forensic  audacities,  the 
magnificent  ebb  and  flow  of  argument  which 
make  the  "Epistle  to  the  Hebrews"  such  a 
miracle,  were  far  and  away  beyond  my  reach,  and 
they  only  bewildered  me.  Some  evangelical 
children  of  my  generation,  I  understand,  were 
brought  up  on  a  work  called  "Line  upon  Line: 
Here  a  Little,  and  there  a  Little."  My  Father's 
ambition  would  not  submit  to  anything  suggested 
by  such  a  title  as  that,  and  he  committed,  from 
his  own  point  of  view,  a  fatal  mistake  when  he 
sought  to  build  spires  and  battlements  without 
having  been  at  the  pains  to  settle  a  foundation 
beneath  them. 

We  were  not  always  reading  the  "Epistle  to 
96 


FATHER   AND   SON 

the  Hebrews,"  however;  not  always  was  my 
flesh  being  made  to  creep  by  having  it  insisted 
upon  that  "almost  all  things  are  by  the  Law 
purged  with  blood,  and  without  blood  is  no  re- 
mission of  sin."  In  our  lighter  moods,  we 
turned  to  the  "Book  of  Revelation,"  and  chased 
the  phantom  of  Popery  through  its  fuliginous 
pages.  My  Father,  I  think,  missed  my  Mother's 
company  almost  more  acutely  in  his  researches 
into  prophecy  than  in  anything  else.  This  had 
been  their  unceasing  recreation,  and  no  third 
person  could  possibly  follow  the  curious  path 
which  they  had  hewn  for  themselves  through  this 
jungle  of  symbols.  But,  more  and  more,  my 
Father  persuaded  himself  that  I,  too,  was  ini- 
tiated, and  by  degrees  I  was  made  to  share  in  all 
his  speculations  and  interpretations. 

Hand  in  hand  we  investigated  the  number  of 
the  Beast,  which  number  is  six  hundred  three 
score  and  six.  Hand  in  hand  we  inspected  the 
nations,  to  see  whether  they  had  the  mark  of 
Babylon  in  their  foreheads.  Hand  in  hand  we 
watched  the  spirits  of  devils  gathering  the  kings 
of  the  earth  into  the  place  which  is  called  in 
the  Hebrew  tongue  Armageddon.  Our  unity 
in  these  excursions  was  so  delightful,  that  my 
Father  was  lulled  in  any  suspicion  he  might  have 
formed  that  I  did  not  quite  understand  what  it 

97 


FATHER   AND   SON 

was  all  about.  Nor  could  he  have  desired  a 
pupil  more  docile  or  more  ardent  than  I  was  in 
my  flaming  denunciations  of  the  Papacy. 

If  there  was  one  institution  more  than  another 
which,  at  this  early  stage  of  my  history,  I  loathed 
and  feared,  it  was  what  we  invariably  spoke  of  as 
"the  so-called  Church  of  Rome."  In  later  years, 
I  have  met  with  stout  Protestants,  gallant 
"Down-with-the-Pope"  men  from  County  Antrim, 
and  ladies  who  see  the  hand  of  the  Jesuits  in 
every  public  and  private  misfortune.  It  is  the 
habit  of  a  loose  and  indifferent  age  to  consider 
this  dwindling  body  of  enthusiasts  with  sus- 
picion, and  to  regard  their  attitude  towards 
Rome  as  illiberal.  But  my  own  feeling  is  that 
they  are  all  too  mild,  that  their  denunciations 
err  on  the  side  of  the  anodyne.  I  have  no 
longer  the  slightest  wish  myself  to  denounce 
the  Roman  communion,  but  if  it  is  to  be  done, 
I  have  an  idea  that  the  latter-day  Protestants 
do  not  know  how  to  do  it.  In  Lord  Beacons- 
field's  phrase,  these  anti-Pope  men  "don't  under- 
stand their  own  silly  business."  They  make 
concessions  and  allowances,  they  put  on  gloves 
to  touch  the  accursed  thing. 

Not  thus  did  we  approach  the  Scarlet  Woman 
in  the  'fifties.  We  palliated  nothing,  we  be- 
lieved in  no  good  intentions,  we  used  (I  myself 

98 


FATHER   AND   SON 

used,  in  my  tender  innocency)  language  of  the 
seventeenth  century  such  as  is  now  no  longer 
introduced  into  any  species  of  controversy.  As 
a  little  boy,  when  I  thought,  with  intense  vague- 
ness, of  the  Pope,  I  used  to  shut  my  eyes  tight 
and  clench  my  fists.  We  welcomed  any  social 
disorder  in  any  part  of  Italy,  as  likely  to  be 
annoying  to  the  Papacy.  If  there  was  a  custom- 
house officer  stabbed  in  a  fracas  at  Sassari,  we 
gave  loud  thanks  that  liberty  and  light  were 
breaking  in  upon  Sardinia.  If  there  was  an 
unsuccessful  attempt  to  murder  the  Grand  Duke, 
we  lifted  up  our  voices  to  celebrate  the  faith 
and  sufferings  of  the  dear  persecuted  Tuscans, 
and  the  record  of  some  apocryphal  monstrosity 
in  Naples  would  only  reveal  to  us  a  glorious 
opening  for  Gospel  energy.  My  Father  cele- 
brated the  announcement  in  the  newspapers 
of  a  considerable  emigration  from  the  Papal 
Dominions,  by  rejoicing  at  "this  out-crowding 
of  many,  throughout  the  harlot's  domain,  from 
her  sins  and  her  plagues." 

No,  the  Protestant  League  may  consider  itself 
to  be  an  earnest  and  active  body,  but  I  can  never 
look  upon  its  efforts  as  anything  but  lukewarm, 
standing,  as  I  do,  with  the  light  of  other  days 
around  me.  As  a  child,  whatever  I  might  ques- 
tion, I  never  doubted  the  turpitude  of  Rome.     I 

99 


FATHER   AND   SON 

do  not  think  I  had  formed  any  idea  whatever  of 
the  character  or  pretensions  or  practices  of  the 
Catholic  Church,  or  indeed  of  what  it  consisted, 
or  its  nature,  but  I  regarded  it  with  a  vague 
terror  as  a  wild  beast,  the  only  good  point  about 
it  being  that  it  was  very  old  and  was  soon  to  die. 
When  I  turned  to  Jukes  or  Newton  for  further 
detail,  I  could  not  understand  what  they  said. 
Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  there  was  no  disadvan- 
tage in  that. 

It  is  possible  that  some  one  may  have  observed 
to  my  Father  that  the  conditions  of  our  life 
were  unfavourable  to  our  health,  although  I 
hardly  think  that  he  would  have  encouraged 
any  such  advice.  As  I  look  back  upon  this  far- 
away time,  I  am  surprised  at  the  absence  in  it 
of  any  figures  but  our  own.  He  and  I  together, 
now  in  the  study  among  the  sea-anemones  and 
star-fishes;  now  on  the  canal-bridge,  looking 
down  at  the  ducks ;  now  at  our  hard  little  meals, 
served  up  as  those  of  a  dreamy  widower  are 
likely  to  be  when  one  maid-of-all-work  provides 
them,  now  under  the  lamp  at  the  maps  we  both 
loved  so  much,  this  is  what  I  see: — no  third 
presence  is  ever  with  us.  Whether  it  occurred 
to  himself  that  such  a  solitude  a  deux  was  ex- 
cellent, in  the  long  run,  for  neither  of  us,  or 
whether  any  chance  visitor  or  one  of  the  "saints," 

100 


FATHER   AND   SON 

who  used  to  see  me  at  the  Room  every  Sunday 
morning,  suggested  that  a  female  influence  might 
put  a  little  rose-colour  into  my  pasty  cheeks, 
I  know  not.  All  I  am  sure  of  is  that  one  day, 
towards  the  close  of  the  summer,  as  I  was  gazing 
into  the  street,  I  saw  a  four-wheeled  cab  stop 
outside  our  door,  and  deposit,  with  several 
packages,  a  strange  lady,  who  was  shown  up  into 
my  Father's  study  and  was  presently  brought 
down  and  introduced  to  me. 

Miss  Marks,  as  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of 
calling  this  person,  was  so  long  a  part  of  my 
life  that  I  must  pause  to  describe  her.  She 
was  tall,  rather  gaunt,  with  high  cheek-bones; 
her  teeth  were  prominent  and  very  white;  her 
eyes  were  china-blue,  and  were  always  absolutely 
fixed,  wide  open,  on  the  person  she  spoke  to; 
her  nose  was  inclined  to  be  red  at  the  tip.  She 
had  a  kind,  hearty,  sharp  mode  of  talking,  but 
did  not  exercise  it  much,  being  on  the  whole 
taciturn.  She  was  bustling  and  nervous,  not 
particularly  refined,  not  quite,  I  imagine,  what 
is  called  "a  lady."  I  supposed  her,  if  I  thought 
of  the  matter  at  all,  to  be  very  old,  but  perhaps 
she  may  have  seen,  when  we  knew  her  first, 
some  forty-five  summers.  Miss  Marks  was  an 
orphan,  depending  upon  her  work  for  her  living; 
she  would  not,  in  these  days  of  examinations, 

101 


FATHER   AND   SON 

have  come  up  to  the  necessary  educational 
standards,  but  she  had  enjoyed  experience  in 
teaching,  and  was  prepared  to  be  a  conscientious 
and  careful  governess,  up  to  her  lights.  I  was 
now  informed  by  my  Father  that  it  was  in  this 
capacity  that  she  would  in  future  take  her  place 
in  our  household.  I  was  not  informed,  what  I 
gradually  learned  by  observation,  that  she  would 
also  act  in  it  as  housekeeper. 

Miss  Marks  was  a  somewhat  grotesque  per- 
sonage, and  might  easily  be  painted  as  a  kind  of 
eccentric  Dickens  character,  a  mixture  of  Mrs. 
Pipchin  and  Miss  Sally  Brass.  I  will  confess 
that  when,  in  years  to  come,  I  read  "Dombey 
and  Son,"  certain  features  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  did 
irresistibly  remind  me  of  my  excellent  past  gov- 
erness. I  can  imagine  Miss  Marks  saying,  but 
with  a  facetious  intent,  that  children  who  sniffed 
would  not  go  to  heaven.  But  I  was  instantly 
ashamed  of  the  parallel,  because  my  gaunt  old 
friend  was  a  thoroughly  good  and  honest  woman, 
not  intelligent  and  not  graceful,  but  desirous  in 
every  way  to  do  her  duty.  Her  duty  to  me  she 
certainly  did,  and  I  am  afraid  I  hardly  rewarded 
her  with  the  devotion  she  deserved.  From  the 
first,  I  was  indifferent  to  her  wishes,  and,  as  much 
as  was  convenient,  I  ignored  her  existence.  She 
held  no  power  over  my  attention,  and  if  I  ac- 

102 


FATHER   AND   SON 

cepted  her  guidance  along  the  path  of  instruc- 
tion, it  was  because,  odd  as  it  may  sound,  I  really 
loved  knowledge.  I  accepted  her  company  with- 
out objection,  and  though  there  were  occasional 
outbreaks  of  tantrums  on  both  sides,  we  got  on 
very  well  together  for  several  years.  I  did  not, 
however,  at  any  time  surrender  my  inward  will  to 
the  wishes  of  Miss  Marks. 

In  the  circle  of  our  life  the  religious  element 
took  so  preponderating  a  place,  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  avoid  mentioning,  what  might  other- 
wise seem  unimportant,  the  theological  views 
of  Miss  Marks.  How  my  Father  had  discovered 
her,  or  from  what  field  of  educational  enterprise 
he  plucked  her  in  her  prime,  I  never  knew,  but 
she  used  to  mention  that  my  Father's  ministra- 
tions had  "opened  her  eyes,"  from  which  "scales" 
had  fallen.  She  had  accepted,  on  their  presenta- 
tion to  her,  the  entire  gamut  of  his  principles. 
Miss  Marks  was  accustomed,  while  putting  me 
to  bed,  to  dwell  darkly  on  the  incidents  of  her 
past,  which  had,  I  fear,  been  an  afflicted  one. 
I  believe  I  do  her  rather  limited  intelligence 
no  injury  when  I  say  that  it  was  prepared  to 
swallow,  at  one  mouthful,  whatever  my  Father 
presented  to  it,  so  delighted  was  its  way-worn 
possessor  to  find  herself  in  a  comfortable,  or,  at 
least,  an  independent  position.  She  soon  bowed,  if 

103 


FATHER   AND   SON 

there  was  indeed  any  resistance  from  the  first, 
very  contentedly  in  the  House  of  Rimmon, 
learning  to  repeat,  with  marked  fluency,  the 
customary  formulas  and  shibboleths.  On  my 
own  religious  development  she  had  no  great 
influence.  Any  such  guttering  theological  rush- 
light as  Miss  Marks  might  dutifully  exhibit 
faded  for  me  in  the  blaze  of  my  Father's  glaring 
beacon-lamp  of  faith. 

Hardly  was  Miss  Marks  settled  in  the  family, 
than  my  Father  left  us  on  an  expedition  about 
which  my  curiosity  was  exercised,  but  not, 
until  later,  satisfied.  He  had  gone,  as  we  after- 
wards found,  to  South  Devon,  to  a  point  on 
the  coast  which  he  had  known  of  old.  Here 
he  had  hired  a  horse,  and  had  ridden  about 
until  he  saw  a  spot  he  liked,  where  a  villa  was 
being  built  on  speculation.  Nothing  equals  the 
courage  of  these  recluse  men;  my  Father  got  off 
his  horse,  and  tied  it  to  the  gate,  and  then  he 
went  in  and  bought  the  house  on  a  ninety-nine 
years'  lease.  I  need  hardly  say  that  he  had 
made  the  matter  a  subject  of  the  most  earnest 
prayer,  and  had  entreated  the  Lord  for  guidance. 
When  he  felt  attracted  to  this  particular  villa, 
he  did  not  doubt  that  he  was  directed  to  it  in 
answer  to  his  supplication,  and  he  wasted  no 
time    in    further    balancing    or    inquiring.    On 

104 


FATHER   AND   SON 

my  eighth  birthday,  with  bag  and  baggage 
complete,  we  all  made  the  toilful  journey  down 
into  Devonshire,  and  I  was  a  town-child  no 
longer. 


105 


CHAPTER  V 

A  new  element  now  entered  into  my  life,  a  fresh 
rival  arose  to  compete  for  me  with  my  Father's 
dogmatic  theology.  This  rival  was  the  Sea. 
When  Wordsworth  was  a  little  child,  the  presence 
of  the  mountains  and  the  clouds'  lighted  up  his 
spirit  with  gleams  that  were  like  the  flashing  of 
a  shield.  He  has  described,  in  the  marvellous 
pages  of  the  "Prelude,"  the  impact  of  nature 
upon  the  infant  soul,  but  he  has  described  it 
vaguely  and  faintly,  with  some  "infirmity  of 
love  for  days  disowned  by  memory," — I  think 
because  he  was  brought  up  in  the  midst  of  spectac- 
ular beauty,  and  could  name  no  moment,  mark 
no  "here"  or  "now,"  when  the  wonder  broke 
upon  him.  At  the  age  of  twice  five  summers, 
he  thought  it  was,  that  he  began  to  hold  uncon- 
scious intercourse  with  nature,  "drinking  in  a 
pure  organic  pleasure"  from  the  floating  mists 
and  winding  waters.  Perhaps,  in  his  anxiety 
to  be  truthful,  and  in  the  absence  of  any  record, 

106 


FATHER   AND   SON 

he  put  the  date  of  this  conscious  rapture  too 
late  rather  than  too  early.  Certainly  my  own 
impregnation  with  the  obscurely-defined  but 
keenly-felt  loveliness  of  the  open  sea  dates  from 
the  first  week  of  my  ninth  year. 

The  village,  on  the  outskirts  of  which  we 
had  taken  up  our  abode,  was  built  parallel  to 
the  cliff-line  above  the  shore,  but  half  a  mile 
inland.  For  a  long  time  after  the  date  I  have 
now  reached,  no  other  form  of  natural  scenery 
than  the  sea  had  any  effect  upon  me  at  all.  The 
tors  of  the  distant  moor  might  be  drawn  in 
deep  blue  against  the  pallor  of  our  morning  or 
our  evening  sky,  but  I  never  looked  at  them. 
It  was  the  Sea,  always  the  sea,  nothing  but.  the 
sea.  From  our  house,  or  from  the  field  at  the 
back  of  our  house,  or  from  any  part  of  the  village 
itself,  there  was  no  appearance  to  suggest  that 
there  could  lie  anything  in  an  easterly  direction 
to  break  the  infinitude  of  red  ploughed  fields. 
But  on  that  earliest  morning,  how  my  heart 
remembers!  we  hastened, — Miss  Marks,  the  maid, 
and  I  between  them, — along  a  couple  of  high- 
walled  lanes,  when  suddenly,  far  below  us,  in  an 
immense  arc  of  light,  there  stretched  the  enor- 
mous plain  of  waters.  We  had  but  to  cross  a 
step  or  two  of  downs,  when  the  hollow  sides  of 
the  great  limestone  cove  yawned  at  our  feet, 

107 


FATHER   AND   SON 

descending,  like  a  broken  cup,  down,  down  to 
the  moon  of  snow-white  shingle  and  the  expanse 
of  blue-green  sea. 

In  these  twentieth-century  days,  a  careful 
municipality  has  studded  the  down  with  rustic 
seats  and  has  shut  its  dangers  out  with  railings, 
has  cut  a  winding  carriage-drive  round  the 
curves  of  the  cove  down  to  the  shore,  and  has 
planted  sausage-laurels  at  intervals  in  clearings 
made  for  that  aesthetic  purpose.  When  last  I 
saw  the  place,  thus  smartened  and  secured, 
with  its  hair  in  curl-papers  and  its  feet  in  patent- 
leathers,  I  turned  from  it  in  anger  and  disgust, 
and  could  almost  have  wept.  I  suppose  that 
to  those  who  knew  it  in  no  other  guise,  it  may 
still  have  beauty.  No  parish  councils,  benefi- 
cent and  shrewd,  can  obscure  the  lustre  of  the 
waters  or  compress  the  vastness  of  the  sky. 
But  what  man  could  do  to  make  wild  beauty 
ineffectual,  tame  and  empty,  has  amply  been 
performed  at  Oddicombe. 

Very  different  was  it  fifty  years  ago,  in  its  un- 
couth majesty.  No  road,  save  the  merest  goat- 
path,  led  down  its  concave  wilderness,  in  which 
loose  furze-bushes  and  untrimmed  brambles  wan- 
toned into  the  likeness  of  trees,  each  draped  in 
audacious  tissue  of  wild  clematis.  Through  this 
fantastic  maze  the  traveller  wound  his  way,  led 

108 


FATHER   AND   SON 

by  little  other  clue  than  by  the  instinct  of  descent. 
For  me,  as  a  child,  it  meant  the  labour  of  a  long, 
an  endless  morning,  to  descend  to  the  snow-white 
pebbles,  to  sport  at  the  edge  of  the  cold,  sharp 
sea,  and  then  to  climb  up  home  again,  slipping 
in  the  sticky  red  mud,  clutching  at  the  smooth 
boughs  of  the  wild  ash,  toiling,  toiling  upwards 
into  flat  land  out  of  that  hollow  world  of  rocks. 

On  the  first  occasion,  I  recollect,  our  Cockney 
housemaid,  enthusiastic  young  creature  that 
she  was,  flung  herself  down  upon  her  knees, 
and  drank  of  the  salt  waters.  Miss  Marks, 
more  instructed  in  phenomena,  refrained,  but  I, 
although  I  was  perfectly  aware  what  the  taste 
would  be,  insisted  on  sipping  a  few  drops  from 
the  palm  of  my  hand.  This  was  a  slight  recur- 
rence of  what  I  have  called  my  "natural  magic" 
practices,  which  had  passed  into  the  background 
of  my  mind,  but  had  not  quite  disappeared.  I 
recollect  that  I  thought  I  might  secure  some 
power  of  walking  on  the  sea,  if  I  drank  of  it — a 
perfectly  irrational  movement  of  mind,  like  those 
of  savages. 

My  great  desire  was  to  walk  out  over  the 
sea  as  far  as  I  could,  and  then  He  flat  on 
it,  face  downwards,  and  peer  into  the  depths. 
I  was  tormented  with  this  ambition,  and,  like 
many  grown-up  people,  was  so  fully  occupied 

109 


FATHER   AND   SON 

by  these  vain  and  ridiculous  desires  that  I 
neglected  the  actual  natural  pleasures  around 
me.  The  idea  was  not  quite  so  demented  as 
it  may  seem,  because  we  were  in  the  habit  of 
singing,  as  well  as  reading,  of  those  enraptured 
beings  who  spend  their  days  in  "flinging  down 
their  golden  crowns  upon  the  jasper  sea."  Why, 
I  argued,  should  I  not  be  able  to  fling  down 
my  straw  hat  upon  the  tides  of  Oddicombe? 
And,  without  question,  a  majestic  scene  upon 
the  Lake  of  Gennesaret  had  also  inflamed  my 
fancy.  Of  all  these  things,  of  course,  I  was 
careful  to  speak  to  no  one. 

It  was  not  with  Miss  Marks,  however,  but 
with  my  Father,  that  I  became  accustomed  to 
make  the  laborious  and  exquisite  journeys  down 
to  the  sea  and  back  again.  His  work  as  a  natu- 
ralist eventually  took  him,  laden  with  implements, 
to  the  rock-pools  on  the  shore,  and  I  was  in 
attendance  as  an  acolyte.  But  our  earliest 
winter  in  South  Devon  was  darkened  for  us  both  by 
disappointments,  the  cause  of  which  lay,  at  the 
time,  far  out  of  my  reach.  In  the  spirit  of  my 
Father  were  then  running,  with  furious  velocity, 
two  hostile  streams  of  influence.  I  was  standing, 
just  now,  thinking  of  these  things,  where  the 
Cascine  ends  in.  the  wooded  point  which  is  carved 
out  sharply  by  the  lion-coloured  swirl  of  the 

110 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Arno  on  the  one  side  and  by  the  pure  flow  of  the 
Mugnone  on  the  other.  The  rivers  meet,  and 
run  parallel,  but  there  comes  a  moment  when  the 
one  or  the  other  must  conquer,  and  it  is  the 
yellow  vehemence  that  drowns  the  purer  tide. 

So,  through  my  Father's  brain,  in  that  year  of 
scientific  crisis,  1857,  there  rushed  two  kinds 
of  thought,  each  absorbing,  each  convincing, 
yet  totally  irreconcilable.  There  is  a  peculiar 
agony  in  the  paradox  that  truth  has  two  forms, 
each  of  them  indisputable,  yet  each  antagonistic 
to  the  other.  It  was  this  discovery,  that  there 
were  two  theories  of  physical  life,  each  of  which 
was  true,  but  the  truth  of  each  incompatible 
with  the  truth  of  the  other,  which  shook  the 
spirit  of  my  Father  with  perturbation.  It  was 
not,  really,  a  paradox,  it  was  a  fallacy,  if  he 
could  only  have  known  it,  but  he  allowed  the 
turbid  volume  of  superstition  to  drown  the 
delicate  stream  of  reason.  He  took  one  step  in 
the  service  of  truth,  and  then  he  drew  back  in  an 
agony,  and  accepted  the  servitude  of  error. 

This  was  the  great  moment  in  the  history 
of  thought  when  the  theory  of  the  mutability 
of  species  was  preparing  to  throw  a  flood  of 
light  upon  all  departments  of  human  specula- 
tion and  action.  It  was  becoming  necessary  to 
stand  emphatically  in  one  army  or  the  other. 

Ill 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Lyell  was  surrounding  himself  with  disciples, 
who  were  making  strides  in  the  direction  of 
discovery.  Darwin  had  long  been  collecting 
facts  with  regard  to  the  variation  of  animals 
and  plants.  Hooker  and  Wallace,  Asa  Gray 
and  even  Agassiz,  each  in  his  own  sphere,  were 
coming  closer  and  closer  to  a  perception  of  that 
secret  which  was  first  to  reveal  itself  clearly 
to  the  patient  and  humble  genius  of  Darwin. 
In  the  year  before,  in  1856,  Darwin,  under 
pressure  from  Lyell,  had  begun  that  modest 
statement  of  the  new  revelation,  that  "  abstract 
of  an  essay,"  which  developed  so  mightily  into 
"The  Origin  of  Species."  Wollaston's  "Vari- 
ation of  Species"  had  just  appeared,  and  had 
been  a  nine  days'  wonder  in  the  wilderness. 

On  the  other  side,  the  reactionaries,  although 
never  dreaming  of  the  fate  which  hung  over 
them,  had  not  been  idle.  In  1857  the  astound- 
ing question  had  for  the  first  time  been  pro- 
pounded with  contumely,  "What,  then,  did  we 
come  from  an  orang-outang?"  The  famous 
"Vestiges  of  Creation"  had  been  supplying  a 
sugar-and-water  panacea  for  those  who  could 
not  escape  from  the  trend  of  evidence,  and  who 
yet  clung  to  revelation.  Owen  was  encouraging 
reaction  by  resisting,  with  all  the  strength  of  his 
prestige,  the  theory  of  the  mutability  of  species. 

112 


FATHER   AND   SON 

In  this  period  of  intellectual  ferment,  as  when 
a  great  political  revolution  is  being  planned,  many- 
possible  adherents  were  confidentially  tested  with 
hints  and  encouraged  to  reveal  their  bias  in  a 
whisper.  It  was  the  notion  of  Lyell,  himself  a 
great  mover  of  men,  that  before  the  doctrine  of 
natural  selection  was  given  to  a  world  which 
would  be  sure  to  lift  up  at  it  a  howl  of  execration, 
a  certain  body-guard  of  sound  and  experienced 
naturalists,  expert  in  the  description  of  species, 
should  be  privately  made  aware  of  its  tenour. 
Among  those  who  were  thus  initiated,  or  ap- 
proached with  a  view  towards  possible  illumina- 
tion, was  my  Father.  He  was  spoken  to  by 
Hooker,  and  later  on  by  Darwin,  after  meetings 
of  the  Royal  Society  in  the  summer  of  1857. 

My  Father's  attitude  towards  the  theory  of 
natural  selection  was  critical  in  his  career,  and, 
oddly  enough,  it  exercised  an  immense  influ- 
ence on  my  own  experience  as  a  child.  Let  it 
be  admitted  at  once,  mournful  as  the  admission 
is,  that  every  instinct  in  his  intelligence  went 
out  at  first  to  greet  the  new  light.  It  had  hardly 
done  so,  when  a  recollection  of  the  opening 
chapter  of  Genesis  checked  it  at  the  outset.  He 
consulted  with  Carpenter,  a  great  investigator, 
but  one  who  was  fully  as  incapable  as  himself  of 
remodelling  his  ideas  with  regard  to  the  old, 

113 


FATHER   AND   SON 

accepted  hypotheses.  They  both  determined, 
on  various  grounds,  to  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  terrible  theory,  but  to  hold  steadily  to  the 
law  of  the  fixity  of  species.  It  was  exactly  at 
this  juncture  that  we  left  London,  and  the 
slight  and  occasional,  but  always  extremely 
salutary  personal  intercourse  with  men  of  scien- 
tific leading  which  my  Father  had  enjoyed  at 
the  British  Museum  and  at  the  Royal  Society 
came  to  an  end.  His  next  act  was  to  burn  his 
ships,  down  to  the  last  beam  and  log  out  of 
which  a  raft  could  have  been  made.  By  a  strange 
act  of  wilfulness,  he  closed  the  doors  upon  him- 
self for  ever. 

My  Father  had  never  admired  Sir  Charles 
Lyell.  I  think  that  the  famous  "Lord  Chan- 
cellor manner"  of  the  geologist  intimidated 
him,  and  we  undervalue  the  intelligence  of  those 
whose  conversation  puts  us  at  a  disadvantage. 
For  Darwin  and  Hooker,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  had  a  profound  esteem,  and  I  know  not 
whether  this  had  anything  to  do  with  the  fact 
that  he  chose,  for  his  impetuous  experiment  in 
reaction,  the  field  of  geology,  rather  than  that 
of  zoology  or  botany.  Lyell  had  been  threaten- 
ing to  publish  a  book  on  the  geological  history 
of  Man,  which  was  to  be  a  bomb-shell  flung  into 
the    camp   of   the    catastrophists.    My   Father, 

114 


FATHER   AND   SON 

after  long  reflection,  prepared  a  theory  of  his 
own,  which,  as  he  fondly  hoped,  would  take 
the  wind  out  of  Lyell's  sails,  and  justify  geology 
to  godly  readers  of  "Genesis."  It  was,  very 
briefly,  that  there  had  been  no  gradual  modifica- 
tion of  the  surface  of  the  earth,  or  slow  develop- 
ment of  organic  forms,  but  that  when  the  catas- 
trophic act  of  creation  took  place,  the  world 
presented,  instantly,  the  structural  appearance 
of  a  planet  on  which  life  had  long  existed. 

The  theory,  coarsely  enough,  and  to  my  Father's 
great  indignation,  was  defined  by  a  hasty  press 
as  being  this — that  God  hid  the  fossils  in  the 
rocks  in  order  to  tempt  geologists  into  infidelity. 
In  truth,  it  was  the  logical  and  inevitable  con- 
clusion of  accepting,  literally,  the  doctrine  of  a 
sudden  act  of  creation;  it  emphasised  the  fact 
that  any  breach  in  the  circular  course  of  nature 
could  be  conceived  only  on  the  supposition  that 
the  object  created  bore  false  witness  to  past 
processes,  which  had  never  taken  place.  For 
instance,  Adam  would  certainly  possess  hair  and 
teeth  and  bones  in  a  condition  which  it  must 
have  taken  many  years  to  accomplish,  yet  he  was 
created  full-grown  yesterday.  He  would  cer- 
tainly— though  Sir  Thomas  Browne  denied  it — 
display  an  omphalos,  yet  no  umbilical  cord  had 
ever  attached  him  to  a  mother. 

115 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Never  was  a  book  cast  upon  the  waters  with 
greater  anticipations  of  success  than  was  this 
curious,  this  obstinate,  this  fanatical  volume. 
My  Father  lived  in  a  fever  of  suspense,  waiting 
for  the  tremendous  issue.  This  "Omphalos" 
of  his,  he  thought,  was  to  bring  all  the  turmoil 
of  scientific  speculation  to  a  close,  fling  geology 
into  the  arms  of  Scripture,  and  make  the  lion 
eat  grass  with  the  lamb.  It  was  not  surprising, 
he  admitted,  that  there  had  been  experienced 
an  ever-increasing  discord  between  the  facts 
which  geology  brings  to  light  and  the  direct 
statements  of  the  early  chapters  of  "Genesis." 
Nobody  was  to  blame  for  that.  My  Father,  and 
my  Father  alone,  possessed  the  secret  of  the 
enigma;  he  alone  held  the  key  which  could 
smoothly  open  the  lock  of  geological  mystery. 
He  offered  it,  with  a  glowing  gesture,  to  atheists 
and  Christians  alike.  This  was  to  be  the  universal 
panacea;  this  the  system  of  intellectual  thera- 
peutics which  could  not  but  heal  all  the  maladies 
of  the  age.  But,  alas!  atheists  and  Christians 
alike  looked  at  it  and  laughed,  and  threw  it 
away. 

In  the  course  of  that  dismal  winter,  as  the  post 
began  to  bring  in  private  letters,  few  and  chilly, 
and  public  reviews,  many  and  scornful,  my 
Father  looked  in  vain  for  the  approval  of  the 

11G 


FATHER   AND   SON 

churches,  and  in  vain  for  the  acquiescence  of  the 
scientific  societies,  and  in  vain  for  the  gratitude 
of  those  "thousands  of  thinking  persons,"  which 
he  had  rashly  assured  himself  of  receiving. 
As  his  reconciliation  of  Scripture  statements 
and  geological  deductions  was  welcomed  no- 
where; as  Darwin  continued  silent,  and  the 
youthful  Huxley  was  scornful,  and  even  Charles 
Kingsley,  from  whom  my  Father  had  expected 
the  most  instant  appreciation,  wrote  that  he 
could  not  "give  up  the  painful  and  slow  con- 
clusion of  five  and  twenty  years'  study  of  geology, 
and  believe  that  God  has  written  on  the  rocks 
one  enormous  and  superfluous  he," — as  all  this 
happened  or  failed  to  happen,  a  gloom,  cold 
and  dismal,  descended  upon  our  morning  tea- 
cups. It  was  what  the  poets  mean  by  an  "in- 
spissated" gloom;  it  thickened  day  by  day, 
as  hope  and  self-confidence  evaporated  in  thin 
clouds  of  disappointment.  My  Father  was  not 
prepared  for  such  a  fate.  He  had  been  the  spoiled 
darling  of  the  public,  the  constant  favourite 
of  the  press,  and  now,  like  the  dark  angels  of 
old, 

so  huge  a  rout 
Encumoered  him  with  ruin. 

He    could   not   recover   from   amazement   at 
having    offended    everybody    by    an    enterprise 

117 


FATHER   AND   SON 

which  had  been  undertaken  in  the  cause  of 
universal  reconciliation. 

During  that  grim  season,  my  Father  was  no 
lively  companion,  and  circumstance  after  cir- 
cumstance combined  to  drive  him  further  from 
humanity.  He  missed  more  than  ever  the  sym- 
pathetic ear  of  my  Mother;  there  was  present 
to  support  him  nothing  of  that  artful,  female 
casuistry  which  insinuates  into  the  wounded 
consciousness  of  a  man  the  conviction  that, 
after  all,  he  is  right  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
is  wrong.  My  Father  used  to  tramp  in  solitude 
round  and  round  the  red  ploughed  field  which 
was  going  to  be  his  lawn,  or,  sheltering  himself 
from  the  thin  Devonian  rain,  pace  up  and  down 
the  still-naked  verandah  where  blossoming  creep- 
ers were  to  be.  And  I  think  that  there  was 
added  to  his  chagrin  with  all  his  fellow  mortals 
a  first  tincture  of  that  heresy  which  was  to  attack 
him  later  on.  It  was  now  that,  I  fancy,  he  began, 
in  his  depression,  to  be  angry  with  God.  How 
much  devotion  had  he  given,  how  many  sacri- 
fices had  he  made,  only  to  be  left  storming 
round  this  red  morass  with  no  one  in  all  the 
world  to  care  for  him  except  one  pale-faced 
child  with  its  cheek  pressed  to  the  window! 

After  one  or  two  brilliant  excursions  to  the 
sea,    winter,    in    its    dampest,    muddiest,    most 

118 


FATHER   AND   SON 

languid  form,  had  fallen  upon  us  and  shut  us 
in.  It  was  a  dreary  winter  for  the  wifeless 
man  and  the  motherless  boy.  We  had  come 
into  the  house,  in  precipitate  abandonment  to 
that  supposed  answer  to  prayer,  a  great  deal 
too  soon.  In  order  to  rake  together  the  lump 
sum  for  buying  it,  my  Father  had  denuded 
himself  of  almost  everything,  and  our  sticks  of 
chairs  and  tables  filled  but  two  or  three  rooms. 
Half  the  little  house,  or  "villa"  as  we  called  it, 
was  not  papered,  two-thirds  were  not  furnished. 
The  workmen  were  still  finishing  the  outside 
when  we  arrived,  and  in  that  connection  I  recall 
a  little  incident  which  exhibits  my  Father's 
morbid  delicacy  of  conscience.  He  was  accus- 
tomed, in  his  brighter  moments — and  this  was 
before  the  publication  of  his  "Omphalos" — 
occasionally  to  sing  loud  Dorsetshire  songs  of 
his  early  days,  in  a  strange,  broad  Wessex  lingo 
that  I  loved.  One  October  afternoon  he  and  I 
were  sitting  on  the  verandah,  and  my  Father  was 
singing;  just  round  the  corner,  out  of  sight,  two 
carpenters  were  putting  up  the  framework  of  a 
greenhouse.  In  a  pause,  one  of  them  said  to 
his  fellow:  "He  can  zing  a  zong,  zo  well's  another, 
though  he  be  a  minister."  My  Father,  who  was 
holding  my  hand  loosely,  clutched  it,  and  look- 
ing up,  I  saw  his  eyes  darken.    He  never  sang 

119 


FATHER   AND   SON 

a  secular  song  again  during  the  whole  of  his 
life. 

Later  in  the  year,  and  after  his  literary  mis- 
fortune, his  conscience  became  more  trouble- 
some than  ever.  I  think  he  considered  the  fail- 
ure of  his  attempt  at  the  reconciliation  of  science 
with  religion  to  have  been  intended  by  God 
as  a  punishment  for  something  he  had  done  or 
left  undone.  In  those  brooding  tramps  round 
and  round  the  garden,  his  soul  was  on  its  knees 
searching  the  corners  of  his  conscience  for  some 
sin  of  omission  or  commission,  and  one  by  one 
every  pleasure,  every  recreation,  every  trifle 
scraped  out  of  the  dust  of  past  experience,  was 
magnified  into  a  huge  offence.  He  thought  that 
the  smallest  evidence  of  levity,  the  least  unbend- 
ing to  human  instinct,  might  be  seized  by  those 
around  him  as  evidence  of  inconsistency,  and 
might  lead  the  weaker  brethren  into  offence. 
The  incident  of  the  carpenters  and  the  comic 
song  is  typical  of  a  condition  of  mind  which  now 
possessed  my  Father,  in  which  act  after  act  be- 
came taboo,  not  because  each  was  sinful  in  itself, 
but  because  it  might  lead  others  into  sin. 

I  have  the  conviction  that  Miss  Marks  was 
now  mightily  afraid  of  my  Father.  Whenever 
she  could,  she  withdrew  to  the  room  she  called 
her  " boudoir,"  a  small,  chilly  apartment,  sparsely 

120 


FATHER   AND   SON 

furnished,  looking  over  what  was  in  process  of 
becoming  the  vegetable  garden.  Very  properly, 
that  she  might  have  some  sanctuary,  Miss  Marks 
forbade  me  to  enter  this  virginal  bower,  which, 
of  course,  became  to  me  an  object  of  harrowing 
curiosity.  Through  the  key-hole  I  could  see 
practically  nothing;  one  day  I  contrived  to  slip 
inside,  and  discovered  that  there  was  nothing 
to  see  but  a  plain  bedstead  and  a  toilet-table, 
void  of  all  attraction.  In  this  " boudoir,"  on 
winter  afternoons,  a  fire  would  be  lighted,  and 
Miss  Marks  would  withdraw  to  it,  not  seen  by  us 
any  more  between  high-tea  and  the  apoca- 
lyptic exercise  known  as  "  worship" — in  less 
strenuous  households  much  less  austerely  prac- 
tised under  the  name  of  "family  prayers."  Left 
meanwhile  to  our  own  devices,  my  Father  would 
mainly  be  reading,  his  book  or  paper  held  close 
up  to  the  candle,  while  his  lips  and  heavy  eye- 
brows occasionally  quivered  and  palpitated,  with 
literary  ardour,  in  a  manner  strangely  exciting 
to  me.  Miss  Marks,  in  a  very  high  cap,  and 
her  large  teeth  shining,  would  occasionally  appear 
in  the  doorway,  desiring,  with  spurious  geniality, 
to  know  how  we  were  "getting  on."  But  on 
these  occasions  neither  of  us  replied  to  Miss 
Marks. 
Sometimes,  in  the  course  of  this  winter,  my 
121 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Father  and  I  had  long  cosy  talks  together  over 
the  fire.  Our  favourite  subject  was  murders. 
I  wonder  whether  little  boys  of  eight,  soon  to 
go  up-stairs  alone  at  night,  often  discuss  violent 
crime  with  a  widower-papa?  The  practice,  I 
cannot  help  thinking,  is  unusual;  it  was,  how- 
ever, consecutive  with  us.  We  tried  other 
secular  subjects,  but  we  were  sure  to  come 
round  at  last  to  "what  do  you  suppose  they 
really  did  with  the  body?  "  I  was  told,  a  thrilled 
listener,  the  adventure  of  Mrs.  Manning,  who 
killed  a  gentleman  on  the  stairs  and  buried 
him  in  quick-lime  in  the  back-kitchen,  and  it 
was  at  this  time  that  I  learned  the  useful  histor- 
ical fact,  which  abides  with  me  after  half  a 
century,  that  Mrs.  Manning  was  hanged  in  black 
satin,  which  thereupon  went  wholly  out  of  fashion 
in  England.  I  also  heard  about  Burke  and 
Hare,  whose  story  nearly  froze  me  into  stone 
with  horror. 

These  were  crimes  which  appear  in  the  chron- 
icles. But  who  will  tell  me  what  "the  Carpet- 
bag Mystery"  was,  which  my  Father  and  I 
discussed  evening  after  evening?  I  have  never 
come  across  a  whisper  of  it  since,  and  I  suspect 
it  of  having  been  a  hoax.  As  I  recall  the  details, 
people  in  a  boat,  passing  down  the  Thames, 
saw  a  carpet-bag  hung  high  in  air,  on  one  of  the 

122 


FATHER   AND   SON 

projections  of  a  pier  of  Waterloo  Bridge.  Being 
with  difficulty  dragged  down — or  perhaps  up — 
this  bag  was  found  to  be  full  of  human  remains, 
dreadful  butcher's  business  of  joints  and  frag- 
ments. Persons  were  missed,  were  identified, 
were  again  denied — the  whole  is  a  vapour  in 
my  memory  which  shifts  as  I  try  to  define  it. 
But  clear  enough  is  the  picture  I  hold  of  myself, 
in  a  high  chair,  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  sitting- 
room  fire-place,  the  leaping  flames  reflected  in 
the  glass-case  of  tropical  insects  on  the  opposite 
wall,  and  my  Father,  leaning  anxiously  forward, 
with  uplifted  finger,  emphasising  to  me  the  pros 
and  cons  of  the  horrible  carpet-bag  evidence. 

I  suppose  that  my  interest  in  these  discus- 
sions— and  Heaven  knows  I  was  animated 
enough — amused  and  distracted  my  Father, 
whose  idea  of  a  suitable  theme  for  childhood's 
ear  now  seems  to  me  surprising.  I  soon  found 
that  these  subjects  were  not  welcome  to  every- 
body, for,  starting  the  Carpet-bag  Mystery  one 
morning  with  Miss  Marks,  in  the  hope  of  de- 
laying my  arithmetic  lesson,  she  fairly  threw 
her  apron  over  her  ears,  and  told  me,  from  that 
vantage,  that  if  I  did  not  desist  at  once,  she 
should  scream. 

Occasionally  we  took  winter  walks  together, 
my  Father  and  I,  down  some  lane  that  led  to  a 

123 


FATHER   AND   SON 

sight  of  the  sea,  or  over  the  rolling  downs.  We 
tried  to  recapture  the  charm  of  those  delightful 
strolls  in  London,  when  we  used  to  lean  over 
the  bridges  and  watch  the  ducks.  But  we 
could  not  recover  this  pleasure.  My  Father 
was  deeply  enwoven  in  the  chain  of  his  own 
thoughts,  and  would  stalk  on,  without  a  word, 
buried  in  angry  reverie.  If  he  spoke  to  me, 
on  these  excursions,  it  was  a  pain  to  me  to  answer 
him.  I  could  talk  on  easy  terms  with  him 
indoors,  seated  in  my  high  chair,  with  our  heads 
on  a  level,  but  it  was  intolerably  laborious  to 
look  up  into  the  firmament  and  converse  with 
a  dark  face  against  the  sky.  The  actual  exer- 
cise of  walking,  too,  was  very  exhausting  to  me; 
the  bright  red  mud,  to  the  strange  colour  of 
which  I  could  not  for  a  long  while  get  accustomed, 
becoming  caked  about  my  little  shoes,  and 
wearying  me  extremely.  I  would  grow  petulant 
and  cross,  contradict  my  Father,  and  oppose 
his  whims.  These  walks  were  distressing  to  us 
both,  yet  he  did  not  like  to  walk  alone,  and  he 
had  no  other  friend.  However,  as  the  winter 
advanced,  they  had  to  be  abandoned,  and  the 
habit  of  our  taking  a  "constitutional"  together 
was  never  resumed. 

I  look  back  upon  myself  at  this  time  as  upon 
a  cantankerous,  ill-tempered  and  unobliging  child. 

124 


FATHER   AND   SON 

The  only  excuse  I  can  offer  is  that  I  really  was 
not  well.  The  change  to  Devonshire  had  not 
suited  me;  my  health  gave  the  excellent  Miss 
Marks  some  anxiety,  but  she  was  not  ready 
in  resource.  The  dampness  of  the  house  was 
terrible;  indoors  and  out,  the  atmosphere  seemed 
soaked  in  chilly  vapours.  Under  my  bed-clothes 
at  night  I  shook  like  a  jelly  unable  to  sleep  for 
cold,  though  I  was  heaped  with  coverings,  while 
my  skin  was  all  puckered  with  goose-flesh.  I 
could  eat  nothing  solid,  without  suffering  im- 
mediately from  violent  hiccough,  so  that  much 
of  my  time  was  spent  lying  prone  on  my  back 
upon  the  hearth-rug,  awakening  the  echoes 
like  a  cuckoo.  Miss  Marks,  therefore,  cut  off 
all  food  but  milk-sop,  a  loathly  bowl  of  which 
appeared  at  every  meal.  In  consequence  the 
hiccough  lessened,  but  my  strength  declined 
with  it.  I  languished  in  a  perpetual  catarrh. 
I  was  roused  to  a  consciousness  that  I  was  not 
considered  well  by  the  fact  that  my  Father 
prayed  publicly  at  morning  and  evening  "wor- 
ship" that  if  it  was  the  Lord's  will  to  take  me 
to  himself  there  might  be  no  doubt  whatever 
about  my  being  a  sealed  child  of  God  and  an 
inheritor  of  glory.  I  was  partly  disconcerted 
by,  partly  vain  of,  this  open  advertisement  of 
my  ailments. 

125 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Of  our  dealings  with  the  "Saints,"  a  fresh 
assortment  of  whom  met  us  on  our  arrival  in 
Devonshire,  I  shall  speak  presently.  My  Father's 
austerity  of  behaviour  was,  I  think,  perpetually 
accentuated  by  his  fear  of  doing  anything  to 
offend  the  consciences  of  these  persons,  whom 
he  supposed,  no  doubt,  to  be  more  sensitive 
than  they  really  were.  He  was  fond  of  saying 
that  "a  very  little  stain  upon  the  conscience 
makes  a  wide  breach  in  our  communion  with 
God,"  and  he  counted  possible  errors  of  conduct 
by  hundreds  and  by  thousands.  It  was  in  this 
winter  that  his  attention  was  particularly  drawn 
to  the  festival  of  Christmas,  which,  apparently, 
he  had  scarcely  noticed  in  London. 

On  the  subject  of  all  feasts  of  the  Church  he  held 
views  of  an  almost  grotesque  peculiarity.  He 
looked  upon  each  of  them  as  nugatory  and  worth- 
less, but  the  keeping  of  Christmas  appeared  to 
him  by  far  the  most  hateful,  and  nothing  less 
than  an  act  of  idolatry.  "The  very  word  is  Pop- 
ish," he  used  to  exclaim,  "Christ's  Mass!" 
pursing  up  his  lips  with  the  gesture  of  one 
who  tastes  assafcetida  by  accident.  Then  he 
would  adduce  the  antiquity  of  the  so-called  feast, 
adapted  from  horrible  heathen  rites,  and  itself 
a  soiled  relic  of  the  abominable  Yule-Tide. 
He    would    denounce   the  horrors  of  Christmas 

126 


FATHER   AND   SON 

until  it  almost  made  me  blush  to  look  at  a  holly- 
berry. 

On  Christmas  Day  of  this  year  1857  our  villa 
saw  a  very  unusual  sight.  My  Father  had 
given  strictest  charge  that  no  difference  what- 
ever was  to  be  made  in  our  meals  on  that  day; 
the  dinner  was  to  be  neither  more  copious  than 
usual  nor  less  so.  He  was  obeyed,  but  the 
servants,  secretly  rebellious,  made  a  small  plum- 
pudding  for  themselves.  (I  discovered  after- 
wards, with  pain,  that  Miss  Marks  received  a 
slice  of  it  in  her  boudoir.)  Early  in  the  after- 
noon, the  maids, — of  whom  we  were  now  ad- 
vanced to  keeping  two, — kindly  remarked  that 
"the  poor  dear  child  ought  to  have  a  bit,  any- 
how," and  wheedled  me  into  the  kitchen,  where 
I  ate  a  slice  of  plum-pudding.  Shortly  I  began 
to  feel  that  pain  inside  which  in  my  frail  state 
was  inevitable,  and  my  conscience  smote  me 
violently.  At  length  I  could  bear  my  spiritual 
anguish  no  longer,  and  bursting  into  the  study 
I  called  out:  "Oh!  Papa,  Papa,  I  have  eaten 
of  flesh  offered  to  idols! "  It  took  some  time, 
between  my  sobs,  to  explain  what  had  hap- 
pened. Then  my  Father  sternly  said:  "Where 
is  the  accursed  thing?"  I  explained  that  as 
much  as  was  left  of  it  was  still  on  the  kitchen 
table.    He  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  ran  with 

127 


FATHER   AND   SON 

me  into  the  midst  of  the  startled  servants,  seized 
what  remained  of  the  pudding,  and  with  the  plate 
in  one  hand  and  me  still  tight  in  the  other,  ran 
till  we  reached  the  dust-heap,  when  he  flung  the 
idolatrous  confectionery  on  to  the  middle  of  the 
ashes,  and  then  raked  it  deep  down  into  the 
mass.  The  suddenness,  the  violence,  the  velocity 
of  this  extraordinary  act  made  an  impression 
on  my  memory  which  nothing  will  ever  efface. 
The  key  is  lost  by  which  I  might  unlock  the  per- 
verse malady  from  which  my  Father's  conscience 
seemed  to  suffer  during  the  whole  of  this  melan- 
choly winter.  But  I  think  that  a  dislocation  of 
his  intellectual  system  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with 
it.  Up  to  this  point  in  his  career,  he  had,  as  we 
have  seen,  nourished  the  delusion  that  science 
and  revelation  could  be  mutually  justified,  that 
some  sort  of  compromise  was  possible.  With 
great  and  ever  greater  distinctness,  his  investi- 
gations had  shown  him  that  in  all  departments 
of  organic  nature  there  are  visible  the  evidences 
of  slow  modification  of  forms,  of  the  type  devel- 
oped by  the  pressure  and  practice  of  seons.  This 
conviction  had  been  borne  in  upon  him  until  it 
was  positively  irresistible.  Where  was  his  place, 
then,  as  a  sincere  and  accurate  observer?  Mani- 
festly, it  was  with  the  pioneers  of  the  new  truth, 
it  was  with  Darwin,  Wallace  and  Hooker.    But 

128 


FATHER   AND   SON 

did  not  the  second  chapter  of  "Genesis"  say  that 
in  six  days  the  heavens  and  earth  were  finished, 
and  the  host  of  them,  and  that  on  the  seventh 
day  God  ended  his  work  which  he  had  made? 

Here  was  a  dilemma!  Geology  certainly  seemed 
to  be  true,  but  the  Bible,  which  was  God's  word, 
was  true.  If  the  Bible  said  that  all  things  in 
Heaven  and  Earth  were  created  in  six  days,  cre- 
ated in  six  days  they  were, — in  six  literal  days  of 
twenty-four  hours  each.  The  evidences  of  sponta- 
neous variation  of  form,  acting,  over  an  immense 
space  of  time,  upon  ever-modifying  organic  struct- 
ures, seemed  overwhelming,  but  they  must  either 
be  brought  into  fine  with  the  six-day  labour  of 
creation,  or  they  must  be  rejected.  I  have  al- 
ready shown  how  my  Father  worked  out  the  in- 
genious " Omphalos"  theory  in  order  to  justify 
himself  as  a  strictly  scientific  observer  who  was 
also  a  humble  slave  of  revelation.  But  the  old 
convention  and  the  new  rebellion  would  alike 
have  none  of  his  compromise. 

To  a  mind  so  acute  and  at  the  same  time  so 
narrow  as  that  of  my  Father — a  mind  which  is 
all  logical  and  positive  without  breadth,  without 
suppleness  and  without  imagination — to  be  sub- 
jected to  a  check  of  this  kind  is  agony.  It  has 
not  the  relief  of  a  smaller  nature,  which  escapes 
from  the  dilemma  by  some  foggy  formula;  nor 

129 


FATHER   AND   SON 

the  resolution  of  a  larger  nature  to  take  to  it 
wings  and  surmount  the  obstacle.  My  Father, 
although  half  suffocated  by  the  emotion  of  being 
lifted,  as  it  were,  on  the  great  biological  wave, 
never  dreamed  of  letting  go  his  clutch  of  the 
ancient  tradition,  but  hung  there,  strained  and 
buffeted.  It  is  extraordinary  that  he — an ' '  honest 
hodman  of  science,"  as  Huxley  once  called  him 
— should  not  have  been  content  to  allow  others, 
whose  horizons  were  wider  than  his  could  be,  to 
pursue  those  purely  intellectual  surveys  for 
which  he  had  no  species  of  aptitude.  As  a  col- 
lector of  facts  and  marshaller  of  observations, 
he  had  not  a  rival  in  that  age;  his  very  absence 
of  imagination  aided  him  in  his  work.  But  he 
was  more  an  attorney  than  a  philosopher,  and  he 
lacked  that  sublime  humility  which  is  the  crown 
of  genius.  For,  this  obstinate  persuasion  that 
he  alone  knew  the  mind  of  God,  that  he  alone 
could  interpret  the  designs  of  the  Creator,  what 
did  it  result  from  if  not  from  a  congenital  lack 
of  that  highest  modesty  which  replies  "I  do  not 
know"  even  to  the  questions  which  Faith,  with 
menacing  finger,  insists  on  having  most  positively 
answered? 


130 


CHAPTER  VI 

During  the  first  year  of  our  life  in  Devonshire, 
the  ninth  year  of  my  age,  my  Father's  existence, 
and  therefore  mine,  was  almost  entirely  divided 
between  attending  to  the  little  community  of 
"Saints"  in  the  village  and  collecting,  examin- 
ing and  describing  marine  creatures  from  the  sea- 
shore. In  the  course  of  these  twelve  months, 
we  had  scarcely  any  social  distractions  of  any 
kind,  and  I  never  once  crossed  the  bounds  of  the 
parish.  After  the  worst  of  the  winter  was  over, 
my  Father  recovered  much  of  his  spirits  and  his 
power  of  work,  and  the  earliest  sunshine  soothed 
and  refreshed  us  both.  I  was  still  almost  always 
with  him,  but  we  had  now  some  curious  com- 
panions. 

The  village,  at  the  southern  end  of  which  our 
villa  stood,  was  not  pretty.  It  had  no  rural  pict- 
uresqueness  of  any  kind.  The  only  pleasant 
feature  of  it,  the  handsome  and  ancient  parish 
church,   with  its  umbrageous  churchyard,   was 

131 


FATHER   AND   SON 

then  almost  entirely  concealed  by  a  congeries  of 
mean  shops,  which  were  ultimately,  before  the 
close  of  my  childhood,  removed.  The  village 
consisted  of  two  parallel  lines  of  contiguous 
houses,  all  whitewashed  and  most  of  them  fronted 
by  trifling  shop-windows ;  for  half  a  mile  this  street 
ascended  to  the  church,  and  then  it  descended 
for  another  half-mile,  ending  suddenly  in  fields, 
the  hedges  of  which  displayed,  at  intervals,  the 
inevitable  pollard  elm-tree.  The  walk  through 
the  village,  which  we  seemed  to  make  incessantly, 
was  very  wearisome  to  me.  I  dreaded  the  rude- 
ness of  the  children,  and  there  was  nothing  in  the 
shops  to  amuse  me.  Walking  on  the  inch  or  two 
of  broken  pavement  in  front  of  the  houses  was 
disagreeable  and  tiresome,  and  the  fcetor  which 
breathed  on  close  days  from  the  open  doors  and 
windows  made  me  feel  faint.  But  this  walk  was 
obligatory,  since  the  "Public  Room,"  as  our  little 
chapel  was  called,  lay  at  the  further  extremity 
of  the  dreary  street. 

We  attended  this  place  of  worship  immediately 
on  our  arrival,  and  my  Father,  uninvited  but 
unresisted,  immediately  assumed  the  adminis- 
tration of  it.  It  was  a  square,  empty  room, 
built,  for  I  know  not  what  purpose,  over  a  stable. 
Ammoniac  odours  used  to  rise  through  the  floor 
as  we  sat  there  at  our  long  devotions.    Before 

132 


FATHER   AND   SON 

our  coming,  a  little  flock  of  persons  met  in  the 
Room,  a  community  of  the  indefinite  sort  just 
then  becoming  frequent  in  the  West  of  England, 
pious  rustics  connected  with  no  other  recognised 
body  of  Christians,  and  depending  directly  on 
the  independent  study  of  the  Bible.  They  were 
largely  women,  but  there  was  more  than  a  sprink- 
ling of  men,  poor,  simple  and  generally  sickly. 
In  later  days,  under  my  Father's  ministration, 
the  body  increased  and  positively  flourished.  It 
came  to  include  retired  professional  men,  an  ad- 
miral, nay,  even  the  brother  of  a  peer.  But  in 
those  earliest  years  the  "brethren"  and  "sisters" 
were  all  of  them  ordinary  peasants.  They  were 
jobbing  gardeners  and  journeymen  carpenters, 
masons  and  tailors,  washerwomen  and  domestic 
servants.  I  wish  that  I  could  paint,  in  colours 
so  vivid  that  my  readers  could  perceive  what 
their  little  society  consisted  of,  this  quaint  col- 
lection of  humble,  conscientious,  ignorant  and 
gentle  persons.  In  chronicle  or  fiction,  I  have 
never  been  fortunate  enough  to  meet  with  any- 
thing which  resembled  them.  The  caricatures 
of  enmity  and  worldly  scorn  are  as  crude,  to 
my  memory,  as  the  unction  of  religious  conven- 
tionality is  featureless. 

The  origin  of  the  meeting  had  been  odd.    A 
few  years  before  we  came,  a  crew  of  Cornish 

133 


FATHER   AND   SON 

fishermen,  quite  unknown  to  the  villagers,  were 
driven  by  stress  of  weather  into  the  haven  under 
the  cliff.  They  landed,  and,  instead  of  going  to 
a  public-house,  they  looked  about  for  a  room 
where  they  could  hold  a  prayer-meeting.  They 
were  devout  Wesleyans ;  they  had  come  from  the 
open  sea,  they  were  far  from  home,  and  they 
had  been  starved  by  lack  of  their  customary  re- 
ligious privileges.  As  they  stood  about  in  the 
street  before  their  meeting,  they  challenged  the 
respectable  girls  who  came  out  to  stare  at  them, 
with  the  question,  "Do  you  love  the  Lord  Jesus, 
my  maid?"  Receiving  dubious  answers,  they 
pressed  the  inhabitants  to  come  in  and  pray 
with  them,  which  several  did.  Ann  Burmington, 
who  long  afterwards  told  me  about  it,  was  one 
of  those  girls,  and  she  repeated  that  the  fisher- 
men said,  "What  a  dreadful  thing  it  will  be,  at 
the  Last  Day,  when  the  Lord  says,  'Come,  ye 
blessed,'  and  says  it  not  to  you,  and  then,  'De- 
part, ye  cursed,'  and  you  maidens  have  to  depart." 
They  were  finely-built  young  men,  with  black 
beards  and  shining  eyes,  and  I  do  not  question 
that  some  flash  of  sex  unconsciously  mingled 
with  the  curious  episode,  although  their  behaviour 
was  in  all  respects  discreet.  It  was,  perhaps,  not 
wholly  a  coincidence  that  almost  all  those  par- 
ticular girls  remained  unmarried  to  the  end  of 

134 


FATHER   AND   SON 

their  lives.  After  two  or  three  days,  the  fisher- 
men went  off  to  sea  again.  They  prayed  and 
sailed  away,  and  the  girls,  who  had  not  even  asked 
their  names,  never  heard  of  them  again.  But 
several  of  the  young  women  were  definitely  con- 
verted, and  they  formed  the  nucleus  of  our  little 
gathering. 

My  Father  preached,  standing  at  a  desk;  or 
celebrated  the  communion  in  front  of  a  deal 
table,  with  a  white  napkin  spread  over  it.  Some- 
times the  audience  was  so  small,  generally  so  un- 
exhilarating,  that  he  was  discouraged,  but  he 
never  flagged  in  energy  and  zeal.  Only  those 
who  had  given  evidence  of  intelligent  acceptance 
of  the  theory  of  simple  faith  in  their  atonement 
through  the  Blood  of  Jesus  were  admitted  to  the 
communion,  or,  as  it  was  called  "the  Breaking 
of  Bread."  It  was  made  a  very  strong  point  that 
no  one  should  "break  bread," — unless  for  good 
reason  shown — until  he  or  she  had  been  baptized, 
that  is  to  say,  totally  immersed,  in  solemn  con- 
clave, by  the  ministering  brother.  This  rite  used, 
in  our  earliest  days,  to  be  performed,  with  pictu- 
resque simplicity,  in  the  sea  on  the  Oddicombe 
beach,  but  to  this  there  were,  even  in  those  quiet 
years,  extreme  objections.  A  jeering  crowd  could 
scarcely  be  avoided,  and  women,  in  particular, 
shrank  from  the  ordeal.    This  used  to  be  a  practi- 

135 


FATHER   AND   SON 

cal  difficulty,  and  my  Father,  when  communi- 
cants confessed  that  they  had  not  yet  been  bap- 
tized, would  shake  his  head  and  say  gravely, 
"Ah!  ah!  you  shun  the  Cross  of  Christ !"  But 
that  baptism  in  the  sea  on  the  open  beach  was  a 
"cross,"  he  would  not  deny,  and  when  we  built 
our  own  little  chapel,  a  sort  of  font,  planked  over, 
was  arranged  in  the  Room  itself. 

Among  these  quiet,  taciturn  people,  there  were 
several  whom  I  recall  with  affection.  In  this 
remote  corner  of  Devonshire,  on  the  road  no- 
whither,  they  had  preserved  much  of  the  air  of 
that  eighteenth  century  which  the  elders  among 
them  perfectly  remembered.  There  was  one  old 
man,  born  before  the  French  Revolution,  whose 
figure  often  recurs  to  me.  This  was  James  Peth- 
erbridge,  the  Nestor  of  our  meeting,  extremely 
tall  and  attenuated;  he  came  on  Sundays  in  a 
full,  white  smock-frock,  smartly  embroidered 
down  the  front,  and  when  he  settled  himself  to 
listen,  he  would  raise  this  smock  like  a  skirt,  and 
reveal  a  pair  of  immensely  long  thin  legs,  cased 
in  tight  leggings,  and  ending  in  shoes  with  buckles. 
As  the  sacred  message  fell  from  my  Father's  lips, 
the  lantern  jaws  of  Mr.  Petherbridge  slowly  fell 
apart,  while  his  knees  sloped  to  so  immense  a 
distance  from  one  another  that  it  seemed  as  though 
they  never  could  meet  again.     He  had  been  pious 

136 


FATHER  AND   SON 

all  his  life,  and  he  used  to  tell  us,  in  some  modest 
pride,  that  when  he  was  a  lad,  the  farmer's  wife 
who  was  his  mistress  used  to  say,  "I  think  our 
Jem  is  going  to  be  a  Methody.  he  do  so  hanker 
after  godly  discoursings."  Mr.  Petherbridge  was 
accustomed  to  pray  -orally,  at  our  prayer-meet- 
ings, in  a  funny  old  voice  like  wind  in  a  hollow 
tree,  and  he  seldom  failed  to  express  a  hope  that 
"the  Lord  would  support  Miss  Lafoy" — who  was 
the  village  schoolmistress,  and  one  of  our  con- 
gregation,— "in  her  labour  of  teaching  the  young 
idea  how  to  shoot."  I,  not  understanding  this 
literary  allusion,  long  believed  the  school  to  be 
addicted  to  some  species  of  pistol-practice. 

The  key  of  the  Room  was  kept  by  Richard 
Moxhay,  the  mason,  who  was  of  a  generation 
younger  than  Mr.  Petherbridge,  but  yet  "getting 
on  in  years."  Moxhay,  I  cannot  tell  why,  was 
always  dressed  in  white  corduroy,  on  which  any 
stain  of  Devonshire  scarlet  mud  was  painfully 
conspicuous ;  when  he  was  smartened  up,  his  ap- 
pearance suggested  that  somebody  had  given  him 
a  coating  of  that  rich  Western  whitewash  which 
looks  like  Devonshire  cream.  His  locks  were 
long  and  sparse,  and  as  deadly  black  as  his  clothes 
were  white.  He  was  a  modest,  gentle  man,  with 
a  wife  even  more  meek  and  gracious  than  him- 
self.   They  never,  to  my  recollection,  spoke  un- 

137 


FATHER  AND   SON 

less  they  were  spoken  to,  and  their  melancholy 
impassiveness  used  to  vex  my  Father,  who  once, 
referring  to  the  Moxhays,  described  them,  sen- 
tentiously  but  justly,  as  being  " laborious,  but 
it  would  be  an  exaggeration  to  say  happy,  Chris- 
tians." Indeed,  my  memory  pictures  almost  all 
the  " saints"  of  that  early  time  as  sad  and  humble 
souls,  lacking  vitality,  yet  not  complaining  of 
anything  definite.  A  quite  surprising  number 
of  them,  it  is  true,  male  and  female,  suffered  from 
different  forms  of  consumption,  so  that  the  Room 
rang  in  winter  evenings  with  a  discord  of  hack- 
ing coughs.  But  it  seems  to  me  that,  when  I  was 
quite  young,  half  the  inhabitants  of  our  rural 
district  were  affected  with  phthisis.  No  doubt, 
our  peculiar  religious  community  was  more  likely 
to  attract  the  feeble  members  of  a  population, 
than  to  tempt  the  flush  and  the  fair. 

Miss  Marks,  patient  pilgrim  that  she  was,  ac- 
cepted this  quaint  society  without  a  murmur, 
although  I  do  not  think  it  was  much  to  her  taste. 
But  in  a  very  short  time  it  was  sweetened  to  her 
by  the  formation  of  a  devoted  and  romantic 
friendship  for  one  of  the  " sisters,"  who  was,  in- 
deed, if  my  childish  recollection  does  not  fail  me, 
a  very  charming  person.  The  consequence  of 
this  enthusiastic  alliance  was  that  I  was  carried 
into  the  bosom  of  the  family  to  which  Miss  Marks' 

138 


FATHER   AND   SON 

new  friend  belonged,  and  of  these  excellent  people 
I  must  give  what  picture  I  can.  Almost  op- 
posite the  Room,  therefore  at  the  far  end  of  the 
village,  across  one  of  the  rare  small  gardens,  (in 
which  this  first  winter  I  discovered  with  rapture  the 
magenta  stars  of  a  new  flower,  hepatica) — a  shop- 
window  displayed  a  thin  row  of  plates  and  dishes, 
cups  and  saucers;  above  it  was  painted  the  name 
of  Burmington.  This  china-shop  was  the  prop- 
erty of  three  orphan  sisters;  Ann,  Mary  Grace, 
and  Bess,  the  latter  lately  married  to  a  carpenter, 
who  was  " elder"  at  our  meeting;  the  other  two, 
resolute  old  maids.  Ann,  whom  I  have  already 
mentioned,  had  been  one  of  the  girls  converted 
by  the  Cornish  fishermen.  She  was  about  ten 
years  older  than  Bess,  and  Mary  Grace  came  half- 
way between  them.  Ann  was  a  very  worthy 
woman,  but  masterful  and  passionate,  suffering 
from  an  ungovernable  temper,  which,  at  calmer 
moments  she  used  to  refer  to,  not  without  com- 
placency, as  "the  sin  which  doth  most  easily  be- 
set me."  Bess  was  insignificant,  and  vulgarised 
by  domestic  cares.  But  Mary  Grace  was  a  de- 
lightful creature. 

The  Burmingtons  lived  in  what  was  almost  the 
only  old  house  surviving  in  the  village.  It  was 
an  extraordinary  construction  of  two  storeys, 
with  vast  rooms,  and  winding  passages,  and  sur- 

139 


FATHER   AND   SON 

prising  changes  of  level.  The  sisters  were  poor, 
but  very  industrious,  and  never  in  anything  like 
want ;  they  sold,  as  I  have  said,  crockery,  and  they 
took  in  washing,  and  did  a  little  fine  needlework, 
and  sold  the  produce  of  a  great,  vague  garden  at 
the  back.  In  process  of  time,  the  elder  sisters 
took  a  young  woman,  whose  name  was  Drusilla 
Elliott,  to  live  with  them  as  servant  and  com- 
panion; she  was  a  converted  person,  worshipping 
with  a  kindred  sect,  the  Bible  Christians.  I  re- 
member being  much  interested  in  hearing  how 
Bess,  before  her  marriage,  became  converted. 
Mary  Grace,  on  account  of  her  infirm  health, 
slept  alone  in  one  room;  in  another,  of  vast  size, 
stood  a  family  four-poster,  where  Ann  slept  with 
Drusilla  Elliott,  and  another  bed  in  the  same 
room  took  Bess.  The  sisters  and  their  friend  had 
been  constantly  praying  that  Bess  might  "find 
peace,"  for  she  was  still  a  stranger  to  salvation. 
One  night,  she  suddenly  called  out,  rather  crossly, 
"What  are  you  two  whispering  about?  Do  go 
to  sleep,"  to  which  Ann  replied:  "We  are  praying 
for  you."  "How  do  you  know,"  answered  Bess, 
"that  I  don't  believe?"  And  then  she  told  them 
that,  that  very  night,  when  she  was  sitting  in  the 
shop,  she  had  closed  with  God's  offer  of  redemp- 
tion. Late  in  the  night  as  it  was,  Ann  and  Dru- 
silla could  do  no  less  than  go  in  and  waken  Mary 

140 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Grace,  whom  however,  they  found  awake,  pray- 
ing, she  too,  for  the  conversion  of  Bess.  They 
told  her  the  good  news,  and  all  four,  kneeling  in 
the  darkness,  gave  thanks  aloud  to  God  for  his 
infinite  mercy. 

It  was  Mary  Grace  Burmington  who  now  be- 
came the  romantic  friend  of  Miss  Marks,  and  a 
sort  of  second  benevolence  to  me.  She  must 
have  been  under  thirty  years  of  age :  she  was  very 
small,  and  she  was  distressingly  deformed  in  the 
spine,  but  she  had  an  animated,  almost  a  spar- 
kling countenance.  When  we  first  arrived  in  the 
village,  Mary  Grace  was  only  just  recovering  from 
a  gastric  fever  which  had  taken  her  close  to  the 
grave.  I  remember  hearing  that  the  vicar,  a 
stout  and  pompous  man  at  whom  we  always 
glared  defiance,  went,  in  Mary  Grace's  supposed 
extremity,  to  the  Burmington's  shop-door,  and 
shouted:  "  Peace  be  to  this  house,"  intending  to 
offer  his  ministrations,  but  that  Ann,  who  was  in 
one  of  her  tantrums,  positively  hounded  him  from 
the  doorstep  and  down  the  garden,  in  her  passion- 
ate nonconformity.  Mary  Grace,  however,  re- 
covered, and  soon  became,  not  merely  Miss 
Marks'  inseparable  friend,  but  my  Father's  spir- 
itual factotum.  He  found  it  irksome  to  visit 
the  " Saints"  from  house  to  house,  and  Mary 
Grace  Burmington  gladly  assumed  this  labour. 

141 


FATHER   AND   SON 

She  proved  a  most  efficient  coadjutor:  searched 
out,  cherished  and  confirmed  any  of  those,  es- 
pecially the  young,  who  were  attracted  by  my 
Father's  preaching,  and  for  several  years  was  a 
great  joy  and  comfort  to  us  all.  Even  when  her 
illness  so  increased  that  she  could  no  longer  rise 
from  her  bed,  she  was  a  centre  of  usefulness  and 
cheerfulness  from  that  retreat,  where  she  "re- 
ceived," in  a  kind  of  rustic  state,  under  a  patch- 
work coverlid  that  was  like  a  basket  of  flowers. 

My  Father,  ever  reflecting  on  what  could  be 
done  to  confirm  my  spiritual  vocation,  to  pin  me 
down,  as  it  were,  beyond  any  possibility  of  es- 
cape, bethought  him  that  it  would  accustom  me 
to  what  he  called  " pastoral  work  in  the  Lord's 
service,"  if  I  accompanied  Mary  Grace  on  her 
visits  from  house  to  house.  If  it  is  remem- 
bered that  I  was  only  eight  and  a  half  when  this 
scheme  was  carried  into  practice,  it  will  surprise 
no  one  to  hear  that  it  was  not  crowned  with  suc- 
cess. I  disliked  extremely  this  visitation  of  the 
poor.  I  felt  shy,  I  had  nothing  to  say,  with  diffi- 
culty could  I  understand  their  soft  Devonian 
patois,  and  most  of  all — a  signal  perhaps  of  my 
neurotic  condition — I  dreaded  and  loathed  the 
smells  of  their  cottages.  One  had  to  run  over 
the  whole  gamut  of  odours,  some  so  faint  that  they 
embraced  the  nostril  with  a  fairy  kiss,  others 

142 


FATHER   AND   SON 

bluntly  gross,  of  the  "knock-you-down"  order; 
some  sweet,  with  a  dreadful  sourness,  some  bitter, 
with  a  smack  of  rancid  hair-oil.  There  were  fine 
manly  smells  of  the  pigsty  and  the  open  drain, 
and  these  prided  themselves  on  being  all  they 
seemed  to  be ;  but  there  were  also  feminine  odours, 
masquerading  as  you  knew  not  what,  in  which 
penny  whiffs,  vials  of  balm  and  opoponax,  seemed 
to  have  become  tainted,  vaguely,  with  the  residue 
of  the  slop-pail.  It  was  not,  I  think,  that  the 
villagers  were  particularly  dirty,  but  those  were 
days  before  the  invention  of  sanitary  science,  and 
my  poor  young  nose  was  morbidly,  nay  ridicu- 
lously, sensitive.  I  often  came  home  from  "  visit- 
ing the  saints"  absolutely  incapable  of  eating 
the  milk-sop,  with  brown  sugar  strewn  over  it, 
which  was  my  evening  meal. 

There  was  one  exception  to  my  unwillingness 
to  join  in  the  pastoral  labours  of  Mary  Grace. 
When  she  announced,  on  a  fine  afternoon,  that 
we  were  going  to  Pavor  and  Barton,  I  was  always 
agog  to  start.  These  were  two  hamlets  in  our 
parish  and,  I  should  suppose,  the  original  home 
of  its  population.  Pavor  was,  even  then,  decayed 
almost  to  extinction,  but  Barton  preserved  its 
desultory  street  of  ancient,  detached  cottages. 
Each,  however  poor,  had  a  wild  garden  round  it, 
and,  where  the  inhabitants  possessed  some  pride 

143 


FATHER   AND   SON 

in  their  surroundings,  the  roses  and  the  jasmines 
and  that  distinguished  creeper, — which  one  sees 
nowhere  at  its  best,  but  in  Devonshire  cottage- 
gardens, — the  stately  cotoniaster,  made  the  whole 
place  a  bower.  Barton  was  in  vivid  contrast  to 
our  own  harsh,  open,  squalid  village,  with  its 
mean  modern  houses,  its  absence  of  all  vegeta- 
tion. The  ancient  thatched  cottages  of  Barton 
were  shut  in  by  moist  hills,  and  canopied  by 
ancient  trees ;  they  were  approached  along  a  deep 
lane  which  was  all  a  wonder  and  a  revelation  to 
me  that  spring,  since,  in  the  very  words  of  Shelley: 

There  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine, 

Green  cow-bind  and  the  moonlight-coloured  May, 

And  cherry  blossoms,  and  white  cups,  whose  wine 
Was  the  bright  dew  yet  drained  not  by  the  day; 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves  wandering  astray. 

Around  and  beyond  Barton  there  lay  fairyland. 
All  was  mysterious,  unexplored,  rich  with  infinite 
possibilities.  I  should  one  day  enter  it,  the  sword 
of  make-believe  in  my  hand,  the  cap  of  courage 
on  my  head,  "when  you  are  a  big  boy,"  said 
the  oracle  of  Mary  Grace.  For  the  present,  we 
had  to  content  ourselves  with  being  an  unad- 
venturous  couple — a  little  woman,  bent  half 
double,  and  a  preternaturally  sedate  small  boy 
— as  we  walked  very  slowly,  side  by  side,  con- 

144 


FATHER   AND   SON 

versing  on  terms  of  high  familiarity,  in  which 
Biblical  and  colloquial  phrases  were  quaintly 
jumbled,  through  the  sticky  red  mud  of  the  Pavor 
lanes  with  Barton  as  a  bourne  before  us. 

When  we  came  home,  my  Father  would  some- 
times ask  me  for  particulars.  Where  had  we 
been,  whom  had  we  found  at  home,  what  testi- 
mony had  those  visited  been  able  to  give  of  the 
Lord's  goodness  to  them,  what  had  Mary  Grace 
replied  in  the  way  of  exhortation,  reproof  or 
condolence?  These  questions  I  hated  at  the  time, 
but  they  were  very  useful  to  me,  since  they  gave 
me  the  habit  of  concentrating  my  attention  on 
what  was  going  on  in  the  course  of  our  visits,  in 
case  I  might  be  called  upon  to  give  a  report. 
My  Father  was  very  kind  in  the  matter;  he  culti- 
vated my  powers  of  expression,  he  did  not  snub 
me  when  I  failed  to  be  intelligent.  But  I  over- 
heard Miss  Marks  and  Mary  Grace  discussing  the 
whole  question  under  the  guise  of  referring  to 
"you  know  whom,  not  a  hundred  miles  hence," 
fancying  that  I  could  not  recognise  their  little 
ostrich  because  its  head  was  in  a  bag  of  metaphor. 
I  understood  perfectly,  and  gathered  that  they 
both  of  them  thought  this  business  of  my  going 
into  undrained  cottages  injudicious.  According- 
ly, I  was  by  degrees  taken  "visiting"  only  when 
Mary  Grace  was  going  into  the  country-hamlets, 

145 


FATHER   AND   SON 

and  then  I  was  usually  left  outside,  to  skip  among 
the  flowers  and  stalk  the  butterflies. 

I  must  not,  however,  underestimate  the  very 
prominent  part  taken  all  through  this  spring  and 
summer  of  1858  by  the  collection  of  specimens 
on  the  sea-shore.  My  Father  had  returned,  the 
chagrin  of  his  failure  in  theorizing  now  being  miti- 
gated, to  what  was  his  real  work  in  life,  the  practi- 
cal study  of  animal  forms  in  detail.  He  was  not 
a  biologist,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  term.  That 
luminous  indication  which  Flaubert  gives  of 
what  the  action  of  the  scientific  mind  should  be, 
"affranchissant  Pesprit  et  pesant  les  mondes,  sans 
haine,  sans  peur,  sans  pitie,  sans  amour  et  sans 
Dieu,"  was  opposed  in  every  segment  to  the 
attitude  of  my  Father,  who,  nevertheless,  was  a 
man  of  very  high  scientific  attainment.  But, 
again  I  repeat,  he  was  not  a  philosopher;  he  was 
incapable,  by  temperament  and  education,  of 
forming  broad  generalisations  and  of  escaping  in 
a  vast  survey  from  the  troublesome  pettiness  of 
detail.  He  saw  everything  through  a  lens,  noth- 
ing in  the  immensity  of  nature.  Certain  senses 
were  absent  in  him;  I  think  that,  with  all  his 
justice,  he  had  no  conception  of  the  importance 
of  liberty;  with  all  his  intelligence,  the  boundaries 
of  the  atmosphere  in  which  his  mind  could  think 
at  all  were  always  close  about  him;  with  all  his 

146 


FATHER   AND   SON 

faith  in  the  Word  of  God,  he  had  no  confidence 
in  the  Divine  Benevolence ;  and  with  all  his  pas- 
sionate piety,  he  habitually  mistook  fear  for  love. 

It  was  down  on  the  shore,  tramping  along  the 
pebbled  terraces  of  the  beach,  clambering  over 
the  great  blocks  of  fallen  conglomerate  which 
broke  the  white  curve  with  rufous  promontories 
that  jutted  into  the  sea,  or,  finally,  bending  over 
those  shallow  tidal  pools  in  the  limestone  rocks 
which  were  our  proper  hunting-ground, — it  was  in 
such  circumstances  as  these  that  my  Father  be- 
came most  easy,  most  happy,  most  human.  That 
hard  look  across  his  brows,  which  it  wearied  me 
to  see,  the  look  that  came  from  sleepless  anxiety 
of  conscience,  faded  away,  and  left  the  dark 
countenance  still  always  stern  indeed,  but  serene 
and  unupbraiding.  Those  pools  were  our  mir- 
rors, in  which,  reflected  in  the  dark  hyaline  and 
framed  by  the  sleek  and  shining  fronds  of  oar- 
weed,  there  used  to  appear  the  shapes  of  a  mid- 
dle-aged man  and  a  funny  little  boy,  equally 
eager,  and,  I  almost  find  the  presumption  to  say, 
equally  well  prepared  for  business. 

If  any  one  goes  down  to  those  shores  now,  if 
man  or  boy  seeks  to  follow  in  our  traces,  let  him 
realise  at  once,  before  he  takes  the  trouble  to  roll 
up  his  sleeves,  that  his  zeal  will  end  in  labour 
lost.    There-  is  nothing,  now,  where  in  our  days 

147 


FATHER   AND   SON 

there  was  so  much.  Then  the  rocks  between  tide 
and  tide  were  submarine  gardens  of  a  beauty  that 
seemed  often  to  be  fabulous,  and  was  positively 
delusive,  since,  if  we  delicately  lifted  the  weed- 
curtains  of  a  windless  pool,  though  we  might  for  a 
moment  see  its  sides  and  floor  paved  with  living 
blossoms,  ivory-white,  rosy-red,  orange  and  am- 
ethyst, yet  all  that  panoply  would  melt  away, 
furled  into  the  hollow  rock,  if  we  so  much  as 
dropped  a  pebble  in  to  disturb  the  magic  dream. 
Half  a  century  ago,  in  many  parts  of  the  coast 
of  Devonshire  and  Cornwall,  where  the  limestone 
at  the  water's  edge  is  wrought  into  crevices  and 
hollows,  the  tide-line  was,  like  Keats'  Grecian 
vase,  "a  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness." 
These  cups  and  basins  were  always  full,  whether 
the  tide  was  high  or  low,  and  the  only  way  in 
which  they  were  affected  was  that  twice  in  the 
twenty-four  hours  they  were  replenished  by  cold 
streams  from  the  great  sea,  and  then  twice  were 
left  brimming  to  be  vivified  by  the  temperate 
movement  of  the  upper  air.  They  were  living 
flower-beds,  so  exquisite  in  their  perfection,  that 
my  Father,  in  spite  of  his  scientific  requirements, 
used  not  seldom  to  pause  before  he  began  to  rifle 
them,  ejaculating  that  it  was  indeed  a  pity  to 
disturb  such  congregated  beauty.  The  antiquity 
of  these  rock-pools,  and  the  infinite  succession  of 

148 


FATHER   AND   SON 

the  soft  and  radiant  forms,  sea-anemones,  sea- 
weeds, shells,  fishes,  which  had  inhabited  them, 
undisturbed  since  the  creation  of  the  world,  used 
to  occupy  my  Father's  fancy.  We  burst  in,  he 
used  to  say,  where  no  one  had  ever  thought  of 
intruding  before;  and  if  the  Garden  of  Eden  had 
been  situate  in  Devonshire,  Adam  and  Eve,  step- 
ping lightly  down  to  bathe  in  the  rainbow- 
coloured  spray,  would  have  seen  the  identical 
sights  that  we  now  saw, — the  great  prawns  gliding 
like  transparent  launches,  anthea  waving  in  the 
twilight  its  thick  white  waxen  tentacles,  and  the 
fronds  of  the  dulse  faintly  streaming  on  the  water, 
like  huge  red  banners  in  some  reverted  atmos- 
phere. 

All  this  is  long  over,  and  done  with.  The  ring 
of  living  beauty  drawn  about  our  shores  was  a 
very  thin  and  fragile  one.  It  had  existed  all 
those  centuries  solely  in  consequence  of  the  in- 
difference, the  blissful  ignorance  of  man.  These 
rock-basins,  fringed  by  corallines,  filled  with  still 
water  almost  as  pellucid  as  the  upper  air  itself, 
thronged  with  beautiful  sensitive  forms  of  life, — 
they  exist  no  longer,  they  are  all  profaned,  and 
emptied,  and  vulgarised.  An  army  of  "collect- 
ors" has  passed  over  them,  and  ravaged  every 
corner  of  them.  The  fairy  paradise  has  been  vio- 
lated, the  exquisite  product  of  centuries  of  natural 

149 


FATHER   AND   SON 

selection  has  been  crushed  under  the  rough  paw 
of  well-meaning,  idle-minded  curiosity.  That  my 
Father,  himself  so  reverent,  so  conservative,  had 
by  the  popularity  of  his  books  acquired  the  direct 
responsibility  for  a  calamity  that  he  had  never 
anticipated,  became  clear  enough  to  himself  be- 
fore many  years  had  passed,  and  cost  him  great 
chagrin.  No  one  will  see  again  on  the  shore  of 
England  what  I  saw  in  my  early  childhood,  the 
submarine  vision  of  dark  rocks,  speckled  and 
starred  with  an  infinite  variety  of  colour,  and 
streamed  over  by  silken  flags  of  royal  crimson  and 
purple. 

In  reviving  these  impressions,  I  am  unable  to 
give  any  exact  chronological  sequence  to  them. 
These  particular  adventures  began  early  in  1858, 
they  reached  their  greatest  intensity  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1859,  and  they  did  not  altogether  cease, 
so  far  as  my  Father  was  concerned,  until  nearly 
twenty  years  later.  But  it  was  while  he  was 
composing  what,  as  I  am  told  by  scientific  men 
of  to-day,  continues  to  be  his  most  valuable  con- 
tribution to  knowledge,  his  "History  of  the  Brit- 
ish Sea- Anemones  and  Corals,"  that  we  worked 
together  on  the  shore  for  a  definite  purpose,  and 
the  last  installment  of  that  still-classic  volume  was 
ready  for  press  by  the  close  of  1859. 

The  way  in  which  my  Father  worked,  in  his 
150 


FATHER   AND   SON 

most  desperate  escapades,  was  to  wade  breast-high 
into  one  of  the  huge  pools,  and  examine  the  worm- 
eaten  surface  of  the  rock  above  and  below  the  brim. 
In  such  remote  places — spots  where  I  could  never 
venture,  being  left,  a  slightly  timorous  Androm- 
eda, chained  to  a  safer  level  of  the  cliff — in  these 
extreme  basins,  there  used  often  to  lurk  a  mar- 
vellous profusion  of  animal  and  vegetable  forms. 
My  Father  would  search  for  the  roughest  and 
most  corroded  points  of  rock,  those  offering  the 
best  refuge  for  a  variety  of  creatures,  and  would 
then  chisel  off  fragments  as  low  down  in  the  water 
as  he  could.  These  pieces  of  rock  were  instantly 
plunged  in  the  salt  water  of  jars  which  we  had 
brought  with  us  for  the  purpose.  When  as 
much  had  been  collected  as  we  could  carry  away 
— my  Father  always  dragged  about  an  immense 
square  basket,  the  creak  of  whose  handles  I  can 
still  fancy  that  I  hear — we  turned  to  trudge  up 
the  long  climb  home.  Then  all  our  prizes  were 
spread  out,  face  upward,  in  shallow  pans  of  clean 
sea-water. 

In  a  few  hours,  when  all  dirt  had  subsided,  and 
what  living  creatures  we  had  brought  seemed  to 
have  recovered  their  composure,  my  work  began. 
My  eyes  were  extremely  keen  and  powerful, 
though  they  were  vexatiously  near-sighted.  Of  no 
use  in  examining  objects  at  any  distance,  in  inves- 

151 


FATHER   AND   SON 

tigating  a  minute  surface  my  vision  was  trained  to 
be  invaluable.  The  shallow  pan,  with  our  spoils, 
would  rest  on  a  table  near  the  window,  and  I, 
kneeling  on  a  chair  opposite  the  light,  would 
lean  over  the  surface  till  everything  was  within 
an  inch  or  two  of  my  eyes.  Often  I  bent,  in  my 
zeal,  so  far  forward  that  the  water  touched  the 
tip  of  my  nose  and  gave  me  a  little  icy  shock.  In 
this  attitude — an  idle  spectator  might  have 
formed  the  impression  that  I  was  trying  to  wash 
my  head  and  could  not  quite  summon  up  resolu- 
tion enough  to  plunge — in  this  odd  pose  I  would 
remain  for  a  long  time,  holding  my  breath,  and 
examining  with  extreme  care  every  atom  of  rock, 
every  swirl  of  detritus.  This  was  a  task  which 
my  Father  could  only  perform  by  the  help  of  a 
lens,  with  which,  of  course,  he  took  care  to  sup- 
plement my  examination.  But  that  my  survey 
was  of  use,  he  has  himself  most  handsomely  testi- 
fied in  his  "Actinologia  Britannica,"  where  he  ex- 
presses his  debt  to  the  "keen  and  well-practised 
eye  of  my  little  son."  Nor,  if  boasting  is  not  to 
be  excluded,  is  it  every  eminent  biologist,  every 
proud  and  masterful  F.R.S.,  who  can  lay  his  hand 
on  his  heart  and  swear  that,  before  reaching  the 
age  of  ten  years,  he  had  added,  not  merely  a  new 
species,  but  a  new  genus  to  the  British  fauna. 
That,  however,  the  author  of  these  pages  can  do, 

152 


FATHER   AND   SON 

who  on  June  29,  1859,  discovered  a  tiny  atom, — 
and  ran  in  the  greatest  agitation  to  announce  the 
discovery  of  that  object  "as  a  form  with  which  he 
was  unacquainted," — which  figures  since  then  on 
all  lists  of  sea-anemones  as  phellia  murocincta,  or 
the  walled  corklet.  Alas!  that  so  fair  a  swallow 
should  have  made  no  biological  summer  in  after- 
life. 

These  delicious  agitations  by  the  edge  of  the 
salt  sea  wave  must  have  greatly  improved  my 
health,  which  however  was  still  looked  upon  as 
fragile.  I  was  loaded  with  coats  and  comforters, 
and  strolled  out  between  Miss  Marks  and  Mary 
Grace  Burmington,  a  muffled  ball  of  flannel.  This 
alone  was  enough  to  give  me  a  look  of  delicacy, 
which  the  "saints,"  in  their  blunt  way,  made  no 
scruple  of  commenting  upon  to  my  face.  I  was 
greatly  impressed  by  a  conversation  held  over  my 
bed  one  evening  by  the  servants.  Our  cook, 
Susan,  a  person  of  enormous  size,  and  Kate,  the 
tattling,  tiresome  parlour-maid  who  waited  upon 
us,  on  the  summer  evening  I  speak  of  were 
standing — I  cannot  tell  why — on  each  side  of  my 
bed.  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  lay  quite  still,  in  order 
to  escape  conversing  with  them,  and  they  spoke 
to  one  another.  "Ah,  poor  lamb,"  Kate  said 
trivially,  "he's  not  long  for  this  world;  going 
home  to  Jesus,  he  is, — in  a  jiffy,  I  should  say  by 

153 


FATHER   AND   SON 

the  look  of 'un."  But  Susan  answered:  " Not  so. 
I  dreamed  about  'un,  and  I  know  for  sure  that  he 
is  to  be  spared  for  missionary  service."  "Mis- 
sionary service?"  repeated  Kate,  impressed. 
"Yes,"  Susan  went  on,  with  solemn  emphasis, 
"he'll  bleed  for  his  Lord  in  heathen  parts,  that's 
what  the  future  have  in  store  for  'im."  When 
they  were  gone,  I  beat  upon  the  coverlid  with  my 
fists,  and  I  determined  that  whatever  happened, 
I  would  not,  not,  not,  go  out  to  preach  the  Gospel 
among  horrid,  tropical  niggers. 


154 


CHAPTER  VII 

In  the  history  of  an  infancy  so  cloistered  and 
uniform  as  mine,  such  a  real  adventure  as  my 
being  publicly  and  successfully  kidnapped  cannot 
be  overlooked.  There  were  several  " innocents" 
in  our  village,  harmless  eccentrics  who  had  more 
or  less  unquestionably  crossed  the  barrier  which 
divides  the  sane  from  the  insane.  They  were  not 
discouraged  by  public  opinion ;  indeed,  several  of 
them  were  favoured  beings,  suspected  by  my 
Father  of  exaggerating  their  mental  density  in 
order  to  escape  having  to  work,  like  dogs,  who, 
as  we  all  know,  could  speak  as  well  as  we  do, 
were  they  not  afraid  of  being  made  to  fetch  and 
carry.  Miss  Mary  Flaw  was  not  one  of  these  im- 
beciles. She  was  what  the  French  call  a  de- 
traquee;  she  had  enjoyed  a  good  intelligence  and 
an  active  mind,  but  her  wits  had  left  the  rails 
and  were  careering  about  the  country.  Miss 
Flaw  was  the  daughter  of  a  retired  Baptist  min- 
ister, and  she  lived,  with  I  remember  not  what 

155 


FATHER   AND   SON 

relations,  in  a  little  solitary  house  high  up  at 
Barton  Cross,  whither  Mary  Grace  and  I  would 
sometimes  struggle  when  our  pastoral  duties  were 
over.  In  later  years,  when  I  met  with  those 
celebrated  verses  in  which  the  philosopher  ex- 
presses the  hope 


In  the  downhill  of  life,  when  I  find  I'm  declining, 
May  my  lot  no  less  fortunate  be 
,  Than  a  snug  elbow-chair  can  afford  for  reclining, 
And  a  cot  that  o'erlooks  the  wide  sea, 


my  thoughts  returned  instinctively,  and  they  still 
return,  to  the  high  abode  of  Miss  Flaw.  There 
was  a  porch  at  her  door,  both  for  shelter  and 
shade,  and  it  was  covered  with  jasmine;  but  the 
charm  of  the  place  was  a  summer-house  close  by, 
containing  a  table,  encrusted  with  cowry-shells, 
and  seats  from  which  one  saw  the  distant  waters  of 
the  bay.  At  the  entrance  to  this  grot  there  was 
always  set  a  "snug  elbow-chair,"  destined,  I  sup- 
pose, for  the  Rev.  Mr.  Flaw,  or  else  left  there  in 
pious  memory  of  him,  since  I  cannot  recollect 
whether  he  was  alive  or  dead. 

I  delighted  in  these  visits  to  Mary  Flaw.  She 
always  received  us  with  effusion,  tripping  forward 
to  meet  us,  and  leading  us,  each  by  a  hand  held  high, 
with  a  dancing  movement  which  I  thought  infinitely 
graceful,  to  the  cowry-shell  bower,  where  she  would 

156 


FATHER   AND   SON 

regale  us  with  Devonshire  cream  and  with  small 
hard  biscuits  that  were  like  pebbles.  The  conver- 
sation of  Mary  Flaw  was  a  great  treat  to  me.  I  en- 
joyed its  irregularities,  its  waywardness;  it  was  like 
a  tune  that  wandered  into  several  keys.  As  Mary 
Grace  Burmington  put  it,  one  never  knew  what 
dear  Mary  Flaw  would  say  next,  and  that  she  did 
not  herself  know  added  'to  the  charm.  She  had 
become  crazed,  poor  thing,  in  consequence  of  a 
disappointment  in  love,  but  of  course  I  did  not 
know  that,  nor  that  she  was  crazed  at  all.  I 
thought  her  brilliant  and  original,  and  I  liked  her 
very  much.  In  the  light  of  coming  events,  it 
would  be  affectation  were  I  to  pretend  that  she 
did  not  feel  a  similar  partiality  for  me. 

Miss  Flaw  was  from  the  first  devoted  to  my 
Father's  ministrations,  and  it  was  part  of  our  odd 
village  indulgence  that  no  one  ever  dreamed  of 
preventing  her  from  coming  to  the  Room.  On 
Sunday  evenings  the  bulk  of  the  audience  was 
arranged  on  forms,  with  backs  to  them,  set  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  with  a  passage  round  them, 
while  other  forms  were  placed  against  the  walls. 
My  Father  preached  from  a  lectern,  facing  the  au- 
dience. If  darkness  came  on  in  the  course  of  the 
service  Richard  Moxhay,  glimmering  in  his  cream- 
white  corduroys,  used  to  go  slowly  round,  lighting 
groups  of  tallow  candles  by  the  help  of  a  box  of 

157 


FATHER   AND   SON 

lucifers.  Mary  Flaw  always  assumed  the  place  of 
honour,  on  the  left  extremity  of  the  front  bench, 
immediately  opposite  my  Father.  Miss  Marks 
and  Mary  Grace,  with  me  ensconced  and  almost 
buried  between  them,  occupied  the  right  of  the 
same  bench.  While  the  lighting  proceeded,  Miss 
Flaw  used  to  direct  it  from  her  seat,  silently  by 
pointing  out  to  Moxhay,  who  took  no  notice,  what 
groups  of  candles  he  should  light  next.  She  did 
this  just  as  the  clown  in  the  circus  directs  the 
grooms  how  to  move  the  furniture,  and  Moxhay 
paid  no  more  attention  to  her  than  the  grooms  do 
to  the  clown.  Miss  Flaw  had  another  peculiarity : 
she  silently  went  through  a  service  exactly  similar 
to  ours,  but  much  briefer.  The  course  of  our  even- 
ing service  was  this.  My  Father  prayed,  and  we  all 
knelt  down;  then  he  gave  out  a  hymn,  and  most 
of  us  stood  up  to  sing;  then  he  preached  for 
about  an  hour,  while  we  sat  and  listened;  then  a 
hymn  again,  then  prayer  and  the  valediction. 

Mary  Flaw  went  through  this  ritual,  but  on  a 
smaller  scale.  We  all  knelt  down  together,  but 
when  we  rose  from  our  knees,  Miss  Flaw  was  al- 
ready standing  up,  and  was  pretending,  without 
a  sound,  to  sing  a  hymn ;  in  the  midst  of  our  hymn, 
she  sat  down,  opened  her  Bible,  found  a  text, 
and  then  leaned  back,  her  eyes  fixed  in  space, 
listening  to  an  imaginary  sermon,  which  our  own 

158 


FATHER   AND   SON 

real  one  soon  caught  up,  and  coincided  with  for 
about  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  Then,  while  our 
sermon  went  peacefully  on,  Miss  Flaw  would  rise, 
and  sing  in  silence  (if  I  am  permitted  to  use  such 
an  expression)  her  own  visionary  hymn;  then  she 
would  kneel  down  and  pray,  then  rise,  collect  her 
belongings,  and  sweep,  in  fairy  majesty,  out  of 
the  chapel,  my  Father  still  rounding  his  periods 
from  the  pulpit.  Nobody  ever  thought  of  pre- 
venting these  movements,  or  of  checking  the  poor 
creature  in  her  innocent  flightiness,  until  the 
evening  of  the  great  event. 

It  was  all  my  own  fault.  Mary  Flaw  had 
finished  her  imaginary  service  earlier  than  usual. 
She  had  stood  up  alone  with  her  hymn-book 
before  her;  she  had  flung  herself  on  her  knees 
alone,  in  the  attitude  of  devotion;  she  had 
risen ;  she  had  seated  herself  for  a  moment  to  put 
on  her  gloves,  and  to  collect  her  Bible,  her  hymn- 
book  and  her  pocket-handkerchief  in  her  reticule. 
She  was  ready  to  start,  and  she  looked  around 
her  with  a  pleasant  air;  my  Father,  all  undis- 
turbed, booming  away  meanwhile  over  our  heads. 
I  know  not  why  the  manoeuvres  of  Miss  Flaw 
especially  attracted  me  that  evening,  but  I 
leaned  out  across  Miss  Marks  and  I  caught  Miss 
Flaw's  eye.  She  nodded,  I  nodded;  and  the 
amazing  deed  was  done,  I  hardly  know  how. 

159 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Miss  Flaw,  with  incredible  swiftness,  flew  along 
the  line,  plucked  me  by  the  coat-collar  from 
between  my  paralysed  protectresses,  darted  with 
me  down  the  chapel  and  out  into  the  dark,  before 
any  one  had  time  to  say  "Jack  Robinson." 

My  Father  gazed  from  the  pulpit  and  the  stream 
of  exhortation  withered  on  his  lips.  No  one 
in  the  body  of  the  audience  stirred;  no  one 
but  himself  had  clearly  seen  what  had  happened. 
Vague  rows  of  "saints"  with  gaping  countenances 
stared  up  at  him,  while  he  shouted,  "Will  nobody 
stop  them?"  as  we  whisked  out  through  the 
doorway.  Forth  into  the  moist  night  we  went, 
and  up  the  lampless  village,  where,  a  few  minutes 
later,  the  swiftest  of  the  congregation,  with  my 
Father  at  their  head,  found  us  sitting  on  the 
door-step  of  the  butcher's  shop.  My  captor  was 
now  quite  quiet,  and  made  no  objection  to  my 
quitting  her, — "without  a  single  kiss  or  a  good- 
bye," as  the  poet  says. 

Although  I  had  scarcely  felt  frightened  at  the 
time,  doubtless  my  nerves  were  shaken  by  this 
escapade,  and  it  may  have  had  something  to 
do  with  the  recurrence  of  the  distressing  visions 
from  which  I  had  suffered  as  a  very  little  child. 
These  came  back,  with  a  force  and  expansion 
due  to  my  increased  maturity.  I  had  hardly 
laid  my  head  down  on  the  pillow,  than,  as  it 

160 


FATHER   AND   SON 

seemed  to  me,  I  was  taking  part  in  a  mad  gallop 
through  space.  Some  force,  which  had  tight 
hold  of  me,  so  that  I  felt  myself  an  atom  in  its 
grasp,  was  hurrying  me  on,  over  an  endless 
slender  bridge,  under  which  on  either  side  a  loud 
torrent  rushed  at  a  vertiginous  depth '  below. 
At  first  our  helpless  flight, — for  I  was  bound  hand 
and  foot  like  Mazeppa, — proceeded  in  a  straight 
line,  but  presently  it  began  to  curve,  and  we 
raced  and  roared  along,  in  what  gradually  be- 
came a  monstrous  vortex,  reverberant  with  noises, 
loud  with  light,  while,  as  we  proceeded,  enormous 
concentric  circles  engulfed  us,  and  wheeled  above 
and  about  us.  It  seemed  as  if  we, — I,  that  is, 
and  the  undefined  force  which  carried  me, — 
were  pushing  feverishly  on  towards  a  goal  which 
our  whole  concentrated  energies  were  bent  on 
reaching,  but  which  a  frenzied  despair  in  my 
heart  told  me  we  never  could  reach,  yet  the 
attainment  of  which  alone  could  save  us  from 
destruction.  Far  away,  in  the  pulsation  of  the 
great  luminous  whorls,  I  could  just  see  that  goal, 
a  ruby-coloured  point  waxing  and  waning,  and 
it  bore,  or  to  be  exact  it  consisted  of,  the  letters 
of  the  word  Carmine. 

This  agitating  vision  recurred  night  after 
night,  and  filled  me  with  inexpressible  distress. 
The  details  of  it  altered  very  little,  and  I  knew 

161 


FATHER   AND   SON 

what  I  had  to  expect  when  I  crept  into  bed. 
I  knew  that  for  a  few  minutes  I  should  be  battling 
with  the  chill  of  the  linen  sheets,  and  trying  to 
keep  awake,  but  that  then,  without  a  pause, 
I  should  slip  into  that  terrible  realm  of  storm 
and  stress  in  which  I  was  bound  hand  and  foot, 
and  sent  galloping  through  infinity.  Often  have 
I  wakened,  with  unutterable  joy,  to  find  my 
Father  and  Miss  Marks,  whom  my  screams  had 
disturbed,  standing  one  on  each  side  of  my 
bed.  They  could  release  me  from  my  nightmare, 
which  seldom  assailed  me  twice  a  night,  but 
how  to  preserve  me  from  its  original  attack 
passed  their  understanding.  My  Father,  in  his 
tenderness,  thought  to  exorcise  the  demon  by 
prayer.  He  would  appear  in  the  bed-room,  just 
as  I  was  first  slipping  into  bed,  and  he  would 
kneel  at  my  side.  The  light  from  a  candle  on  the 
mantle-shelf  streamed  down  upon  his  dark  head 
of  hair  while  his  face  was  buried  in  the  coverlid, 
from  which  a  loud  voice  came  up,  a  little  muffled, 
begging  that  I  might  be  preserved  against  all 
the  evil  spirits  that  walk  in  darkness,  and  that 
the  deep  might  not  swallow  me  up. 

This  little  ceremony  gave  a  distraction  to  my 
thoughts,  and  may  have  been  useful  in  that 
way.  But  it  led  to  an  unfortunate  circumstance. 
My  Father  began  to  enjoy  these  orisons  at  my 

162 


FATHER   AND   SON 

bed-side,  and  to  prolong  them.  Perhaps  they 
lasted  a  little  too  long,  but  I  contrived  to  keep 
awake  through  them,  sometimes  by  a  great 
effort.  On  one  unhappy  night,  however,  I  gave 
even  worse  offence  than  slumber  would  have 
given.  My  Father  was  praying  aloud,  in  the 
attitude  I  have  described,  and  I  was  half  sitting, 
half  lying  in  bed,  with  the  clothes  sloping  from 
my  chin.  Suddenly  a  rather  large  insect,  dark 
and  flat,  with  more  legs  than  a  self-respecting 
insect  ought  to  need,  appeared  at  the  bottom 
of  the  counterpane,  and  slowly  advanced.  I 
think  it  was  nothing  worse  than  a  beetle.  It 
walked  successfully  past  my  Father's  sleek 
black  ball  of  a  head,  and  climbed  straight  up  at 
me,  nearer,  nearer,  till  it  seemed  all  a  twinkle  of 
horns  and  joints.  I  bore  it  in  silent  fascination 
till  it  almost  tickled  my  chin,  and  then  I  screamed 
"Papa!  Papa!"  My  Father  rose  in  great  dud- 
geon, removed  the  insect  (what  were  insects  to 
him!)  and  then  gave  me  a  tremendous  lecture. 

The  sense  of  desperation  which  this  incident 
produced  I  shall  not  easily  forget.  Life  seemed 
really  to  be  very  harassing  when  to  visions 
within  and  beetles  without  there  was  joined  the 
consciousness  of  having  grievously  offended  God 
by  an  act  of  disrespect.  It  is  difficult  for  me 
to  justify  to  myself  the  violent  jobation  which 

163 


FATHER   AND   SON 

my  Father  gave  me  in  consequence  of  my  screams, 
except  by  attributing  to  him  something  of  the 
human  weakness  of  vanity.  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  he  liked  to  hear  himself  speak 
to  God  in  the  presence  of  an  admiring  listener. 
He  prayed  with  fervour  and  animation,  in  pure 
Johnsonian  English,  and  I  hope  I  am  not  un- 
dutiful  if  I  add  my  impression  that  he  was  not 
displeased  with  the  sound  of  his  own  devotions. 
My  cry  for  help  had  needlessly,  as  he  thought, 
broken  in  upon  this  holy  and  seemly  perform- 
ance. "You,  the  child  of  a  naturalist,"  he 
remarked  in  awesome  tones,  "you  to  pretend 
to  feel  terror  at  the  advance  of  an  insect?"  It 
could  but  be  a  pretext,  he  declared,  for  avoid- 
ing the  testimony  of  faith  in  prayer.  "If  your 
heart  were  fixed,  if  it  panted  after  the  Lord, 
it  would  take  more  than  the  movements  of  a 
beetle  to  make  you  disturb  oral  supplication 
at  His  footstool.  Beware!  for  God  is  a  jealous 
God  and  He  consumes  them  in  wrath  who  make 
a  noise  like  a  dog." 

My  Father  took  at  all  times  a  singular  pleas- 
ure in  repeating  that  "our  God  is  a  jealous 
God."  He  liked  the  word,  which  I  suppose 
he  used  in  an  antiquated  sense.  He  was  accus- 
tomed to  tell  the  "saints"  at  the  room, — in  a 
very  genial  manner,  and  smiling  at  them  as  he 

164 


FATHER   AND   SON 

said  it, — "I  am  jealous  over  you,  my  beloved 
brothers  and  sisters,  with  a  godly  jealousy."  I 
know  that  this  was  interpreted  by  some  of  the 
saints, — for  I  heard  Mary  Grace  say  so  to  Miss 
Marks, — as  meaning  that  my  Father  was  re- 
sentful because  some  of  them  attended  the 
services  at  the  Wesleyan  chapel  on  Thursday 
evenings.  But  my  Father  was  utterly  incap- 
able of  such  littleness  as  this,  and  when  he  talked 
of  "jealousy"  he  meant  a  lofty  solicitude,  a 
careful  watchfulness.  He  meant  that  their  spirit- 
ual honour  was  a  matter  of  anxiety  to  him.  No 
doubt  when  he  used  to  tell  me  to  remember  that 
our  God  is  a  jealous  God,  he  meant  that  my 
sins  and  short-comings  were  not  matters  of  in- 
difference to  the  Divine  Being.  But  I  think, 
looking  back,  that  it  was  very  extraordinary  for 
a  man,  so  instructed  and  so  intelligent  as  he,  to 
dwell  so  much  on  the  possible  anger  of  the  Lord, 
rather  than  on  his  pity  and  love.  The  theory  of 
extreme  Puritanism  can  surely  offer  no  quainter 
example  of  its  fallacy  than  this  idea  that  the 
omnipotent  Jehovah  could  be  seriously  offended, 
and  could  stoop  to  revenge,  because  a  little, 
nervous  child  of  nine  had  disturbed  a  prayer  by 
being  frightened  at  an  insect. 

The  fact  that  the  word  "  carmine "  appeared 
as  the  goal  of  my  visionary  pursuits  is  not  so 

165 


FATHER   AND   SON 

inexplicable  as  it  may  seem.  My  Father  was 
at  this  time  producing  numerous  water-colour 
drawings  of  minute  and  even  of  microscopic 
forms  of  life.  These  he  executed  in  the  manner 
of  miniature,  with  an  amazing  fidelity  of  form 
and  with  a  brilliancy  of  colour  which  remains 
unfaded  after  fifty  years.  By  far  the  most 
costly  of  his  pigments  was  the  intense  crimson 
which  is  manufactured  out  of  the  very  spirit 
and  essence  of  cochineal.  I  had  lately  become 
a  fervent  imitator  of  his  works  of  art,  and  I 
was  allowed  to  use  all  of  his  colours,  except 
one;  I  was  strictly  forbidden  to  let  a  hair  of 
my  paint-brush  touch  the  little  broken  mass  of 
carmine  which  was  all  that  he  possessed.  We 
believed,  but  I  do  not  know  whether  this  could 
be  the  fact,  that  carmine  of  this  superlative 
quality  was  sold  at  a  guinea  a  cake.  " Carmine," 
therefore,  became  my  shibboleth  of  self-indul- 
gence; it  was  a  symbol  of  all  that  taste  and 
art  and  wealth  could  combine  to  produce.  I 
imagined,  for  instance,  that  at  Belshazzar's 
feast,  the  loftiest  epergne  of  gold,  surround- 
ed by  flowers  and  jewels,  carried  the  monarch's 
proudest  possession,  a  cake  of  carmine.  I  knew 
of  no  object  in  the  world  of  luxury  more 
desirable  than  this,  and  its  obsession  in  my  wak- 
ing hours  is  quite  enough,  I  think,  to  account  for 

166 


FATHER   AND   SON 

having    been    the    torment    of   my 
dreams. 

The  little  incident  of  the  beetle  displays  my 
Father's  mood  at  this  period  in  its  worst  light. 
His  severity  was  not  very  creditable,  perhaps, 
to  his  good  sense,  but  without  a  word  of  explana- 
tion it  may  seem  even  more  unreasonable  than 
it  was.  My  Father  might  have  been  less  stern 
to  my  lapses  from  high  conduct,  and  my  own 
mind  at  the  same  time  less  armoured  against 
his  arrows,  if  our  relations  had  been  those  which 
exist  in  an  ordinary  religious  family.  He  would 
have  been  more  indulgent,  and  my  own  affections 
might  nevertheless  have  been  more  easily  alien- 
ated, if  I  had  been  treated  by  him  as  a  common- 
place child,  standing  as  yet  outside  the  pale  of 
conscious  Christianity.  But  he  had  formed  the 
idea,  and  cultivated  it  assiduously,  that  I  was  an 
ame  d' elite,  a  being  to  whom  the  mysteries  of 
salvation  had  been  divinely  revealed  and  by 
whom  they  had  been  accepted.  I  was,  to  his 
partial  fancy,  one  in  whom  the  Holy  Ghost 
had  already  performed  a  real  and  permanent 
work.  Hence,  I  was  inside  the  pale;  I  had 
attained  that  inner  position  which  divided,  as 
we  used  to  say,  the  Sheep  from  the  Goats. 
Another  little  boy  might  be  very  well-behaved, 
but   if  he   had   not   consciously  "laid   hold   on 

167 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Christ,"  his  good  deeds,  so  far,  were  absolutely 
useless.  Whereas  I  might  be  a  very  naughty 
boy,  and  require  much  chastisement  from  God 
and  man,  but  nothing — so  my  Father  thought 
— could  invalidate  my  election,  and  sooner  or 
later,  perhaps  even  after  many  stripes,  I  must 
inevitably  be  brought  back  to  a  state  of  grace. 
The  paradox  between  this  unquestionable 
sanctification  by  faith  and  my  equally  unques- 
tionable naughtiness,  occupied  my  Father  greatly 
at  this  time.  He  made  it  a  frequent  subject 
of  intercession  at  family  prayers,  not  caring  to 
hide  from  the  servants  misdemeanours  of  mine, 
which  he  spread  out  with  a  melancholy  unction 
before  the  Lord.  He  cultivated  the  belief  that 
all  my  little  ailments,  all  my  aches  and  pains, 
were  sent  to  correct  my  faults.  He  carried  this 
persuasion  very  far,  even  putting  this  exhortation 
before,  instead  of  after,  an  instant  relief  of  my 
sufferings.  If  I  burned  my  fingers  with  a  sulphur 
match,  or  pinched  the  end  of  my  nose  in  the 
door  (to  mention  but  two  sorrows  that  recur 
to  my  memory),  my  Father  would  solemnly 
ejaculate:  "0  may  these  afflictions  be  much 
sanctified  to  him!"  before  offering  any  remedy 
for  my  pain.  So  that  I  almost  longed,  under 
the  pressure  of  these  pangs,  to  be  a  godless 
child,  who  had  never  known  the  privileges  of 

168 


FATHER   AND   SON 

saving  .grace,  since  I  argued  that  such  a  child 
would  be  subjected  to  none  of  the  sufferings 
which  seemed  to  assail  my  path. 

What  the  ideas  or  conduct  of  " another  child" 
might  be  I  had,  however,  at  this  time  no  idea, 
for,  strange  as  it  may  sound,  I  had  not,  until  my 
tenth  year  was  far  advanced,  made  acquaintance 
with  any  such  creature.  The  "saints"  had  chil- 
dren, but  I  was  not  called  upon  to  cultivate 
their  company,  and  I  had  not  the  slightest  wish 
to  do  so.  But  early  in  1859  I  was  allowed,  at 
last,  to  associate  with  a  child  of  my  own  age.  I 
do  not  recall  that  this  permission  gave  me  any 
rapture;  I  accepted  it  philosophically,  but  with- 
out that  delighted  eagerness  which  I  might  have 
been  expected  to  show.  My  earliest  companion, 
then,  was  a  little  boy  of  almost  exactly  my  own 
age.  His  name  was  Benny,  which  no  doubt  was 
short  for  Benjamin.  His  surname  I  have  for- 
gotten, but  his  mother — I  think  he  had  no  father 
— was  a  solemn  and  shadowy  lady  of  means  who 
lived  in  a  villa,  which  was  older  and  much  larger 
than  ours,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road. 
Going  to  "play  with  Benny"  involved  a  small 
public  excursion,  and  this  I  was  now  allowed 
to  make  by  myself — an  immense  source  of  self- 
respect. 

Everything  in  my  little  memories  seems  to 
169 


FATHER   AND   SON 

run  askew;  obviously  I  ought  to  have  been 
extremely  stirred  and  broadened  by  this  earliest 
association  with  a  boy  of  my  own  age!  Yet 
I  cannot  truly  say  that  it  was  so.  Benny's 
mother  possessed  what  seemed  to  me  a  vast 
domain,  with  lawns  winding  among  broad  shrub- 
beries, and  a  kitchen-garden,  with  aged  fruit- 
trees  in  it.  The  ripeness  of  this  place,  mossed 
and  leafy,  was  gratifying  to  my  senses,  on  which 
the  rawness  of  our  own  bald  garden  jarred. 
There  was  an  old  brick  wall  between  the  two 
divisions,  upon  which  it  was  possible  for  us  to 
climb  up,  and  from  this  we  gained  Pisgah-views 
which  were  a  prodigious  pleasure.  But  I  had 
not  the  faintest  idea  how  to  "play";  I  had 
never  learned,  had  never  heard  of  any  "games." 
I  think  Benny  must  have  lacked  initiative  almost 
as  much  as  I  did.  We  walked  about,  and  shook 
the  bushes,  and  climbed  along  the  wall;  I  think 
that  was  almost  all  we  ever  did  do.  And,  sadly 
enough,  I  cannot  recover  a  phrase  from  Benny's 
lips,  nor  an  action,  nor  a  gesture,  although  I 
remember  quite  clearly  how  some  grown-up 
people  of  that  time  looked,  and  the  very  words 
they  said. 

For  example,  I  recollect  Miss  Wilkes  very 
distinctly,  since  I  studied  her  with  great  de- 
liberation, and  with  a  suspicious  watchfulness 

170 


FATHER   AND   SON 

that  was  above  my  years.  In  Miss  Wilkes  a 
type  that  had  hitherto  been  absolutely  unfamiliar 
to  us  obtruded  upon  our  experience.  In  our 
Eveless  Eden,  Woman,  if  not  exactly  hirsute, 
et  horrida,  had  always  been  "of  a  certain  age." 
But  Miss  Wilkes  was  a  comparatively  young 
thing,  and  she  advanced  not  by  any  means  un- 
conscious of  her  charms.  All  was  feminine, 
all  was  impulsive,  about  Miss  Wilkes ;  every  gest- 
ure seemed  eloquent  with  girlish  innocence 
and  the  playful  dawn  of  life.  In  actual  years  I 
fancy  she  was  not  so  extremely  youthful,  since 
she  was  the  responsible  and  trusted  head-mistress 
of  a  large  boarding-school  for  girls,  but  in  her 
heart  the  joy  of  life  ran  high.  Miss  Wilkes  had 
a  small,  round  face,  with  melting  eyes,  and  when 
she  lifted  her  head,  her  ringlets  seemed  to  vibrate 
and  shiver  like  the  bells  of  a  pagoda.  She  had 
a  charming  way  of  clasping  her  hands,  and  holding 
them  against  her  bodice,  while  she  said,  "0, 
but — really  now"  in  a  manner  inexpressibly 
engaging.  She  was  very  earnest,  and  she  had 
a  pleading  way  of  calling  out:  "0,  but  aren't 
you  teasing  me?"  which  would  have  brought  a 
tiger  fawning  to  her  crinoline. 

After  we  had  spent  a  full  year  without  any 
social  distractions,  it  seems  that  our  circle  of 
acquaintances   had   now   begun    to    extend,    in 

171 


FATHER  AND   SON 

spite  of  my  Father's  unwillingness  to  visit  his 
neighbours.  He  was  a  fortress  that  required 
to  be  stormed,  but  there  was  considerable  local 
curiosity  about  him,  so  that  by-and-by  escalading 
parties  were  formed,  some  of  which  were  partly 
successful.  In  the  first  place,  Charles  Kingsley 
had  never  hesitated  to  come,  from  the  beginning, 
ever  since  our  arrival.  He  had  reason  to  visit 
our  neighbouring  town  rather  frequently,  and 
on  such  occasions  he  always  marched  up  and 
attacked  us.  It  was  extraordinary  how  persistent 
he  was,  for  my  Father  must  have  been  a  very 
trying  friend.  I  vividly  recollect  that  a  sort  of 
cross-examination  of  would-be  communicants 
was  going  on  in  our  half-furnished  drawing-room 
one  week-day  morning,  when  Mr.  Kingsley  was 
announced;  my  Father,  in  stentorian  tones, 
replied:  "Tell  Mr.  Kingsley  that  I  am  engaged 
in  examining  Scripture  with  certain  of  the  Lord's 
children."  And  I,  a  little  later,  kneeling  at  the 
window,  while  the  candidates  were  being  dis- 
missed with  prayer,  watched  the  author  of 
"Hypatia"  nervously  careering  about  the  garden, 
very  restless  and  impatient,  yet  preferring  this 
ignominy  to  the  chance  of  losing  my  Father's 
company  altogether.  Kingsley,  a  daring  spirit, 
used  sometimes  to  drag  us  out  trawling  with  him 
in  Torbay,  and  although  his  hawk's  beak  and 

172 


FATHER   AND   SON 

rattling  voice  frightened  me  a  little,  his  was  always 
a  jolly  presence  that  brought  some  refreshment 
to  our  seriousness. 

But  the  other  visitors  who  came  in  Kingsley's 
wake  and  without  his  excuse,  how  they  disturbed 
us!  We  used  to  be  seated,  my  Father  at  his 
microscope,  I  with  my  map  or  book,  in  the  down- 
stairs room  we  called  the  study.  There  would 
be  a  hush  around  us  in  which  you  could  hear  a  sea- 
anemone  sigh.  Then,  abruptly,  would  come  a  ring 
at  the  front  door;  my  Father  would  bend  at  me 
a  corrugated  brow,  and  murmur,  under  his 
breath,  "What's  that?"  and  then,  at  the  sound 
of  footsteps,  would  bolt  into  the  verandah,  and 
round  the  garden  into  the  potting-shed.  If  it 
was  no  visitor  more  serious  than  the  postman  or 
the  tax-gatherer,  I  used  to  go  forth  and  coax 
the  timid  wanderer  home.  If  it  was  a  caller, 
above  all  a  female  caller,  it  was  my  privilege 
to  prevaricate,  remarking  innocently  that  "Papa 
is  out!" 

Into  a  paradise  so  carefully  guarded,  I  know 
not  how  that  serpent  Miss  Wilkes  could  pene- 
trate, but  there  she  was.  She  "broke  bread" 
with  the  Brethren  at  the  adjacent  town,  from 
which  she  carried  on  strategical  movements,  which 
were,  up  to  a  certain  point,  highly  successful. 
She  professed  herself  deeply  interested  in  micros- 

173 


FATHER   AND   SON 

copy,  and  desired  that  some  of  her  young  ladies 
should  study  it  also.  She  came  attended  by  an 
unimportant  mamma,  and  by  pupils  to  whom  I 
had  sometimes,  very  unwillingly,  to  show  our 
"natural  objects."  They  would  invade  us,  and  fill 
our  quietness  with  chattering  noise ;  I  could  bear 
none  of  them,  and  I  was  singularly  drawn  to  Miss 
Marks  by  finding  that  she  disliked  them  too. 

By  whatever  arts  she  worked,  Miss  Wilkes 
certainly  achieved  a  certain  ascendency.  When 
the  knocks  came  at  the  front  door,  I  was  now 
instructed  to  see  whether  the  visitor  were  not 
she,  before  my  Father  bolted  to  the  potting- 
shed.  She  was  an  untiring  listener,  and  my 
Father  had  a  passion  for  instructing.  Miss  Wilkes 
was  never  weary  of  expressing  what  a  revelation 
of  the  wonderful  works  of  God  in  creation  her 
acquaintance  with  us  had  been.  She  would 
gaze  through  the  microscope  at  awful  forms,  and 
would  persevere  until  the  silver  rim  which  marked 
the  confines  of  the  drop  of  water  under  inspection 
would  ripple  inwards  with  a  flash  of  light  and 
vanish,  because  the  drop  itself  had  evaporated. 
"Well,  I  can  only  say,  how  marvellous  are 
Thy  doings!"  was  a  frequent  ejaculation  of 
Miss  Wilkes,  and  one  that  was  very  well  received. 
She  learned  the  Latin  names  of  many  of  the 
species,  and  it  seems  quite  pathetic  to  me,  looking 

174 


FATHER   AND   SON 

back,  to  realise  how  much  trouble  the  poor  woman 
took.  She  "hung,"  as  the  expression  is,  upon 
my  Father's  every  word,  and  one  instance  of  this 
led  to  a  certain  revelation. 

My  Father,  who  had  an  extraordinary  way  of  say- 
ing anything  that  came  up  into  his  mind,  stated  one 
day, — the  fashions,  I  must  suppose,  being  under 
discussion, — that  he  thought  white  the  only  becom- 
ing colour  for  a  lady's  stockings.  The  stockings 
of  Miss  Wilkes  had  up  to  that  hour  been  of  a  deep 
violet,  but  she  wore  white  ones  in  future  when- 
ever she  came  to  our  house.  This  delicacy  would 
have  been  beyond  my  unaided  infant  observa- 
tion, but  I  heard  Miss  Marks  mention  the  matter, 
in  terms  which  they  supposed  to  be  secret,  to 
her  confidant,  and  I  verified  it  at  the  ancles  of 
the  lady.  Miss  Marks  continued  by  saying,  in 
confidence,  and  "quite  as  between  you  and  me, 
dear  Mary  Grace,"  that  Miss  Wilkes  was  a  "minx." 
I  had  the  greatest  curiosity  about  words,  and 
as  this  was  a  new  one,  I  looked  it  up  in  our  large 
English  Dictionary.  But  there  the  definition  of 
the  term  was  this: — "Minx:  the  female  of 
minnock;  a  pert  wanton."  I  was  as  much  in 
the  dark  as  ever. 

Whether  she  was  the  female  of  a  minnock 
(whatever  that  may  be)  or  whether  she  was 
only  a  very  well-meaning  schoolmistress  desirous 

175 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  enlivening  a  monotonous  existence,  Miss 
Wilkes  certainly  took  us  out  of  ourselves  a  good 
deal.  Did  my  Father  know  what  danger  he 
ran?  It  was  the  opinion  of  Miss  Marks  and 
of  Mary  Grace  that  he  did  not,  and  in  the  back- 
kitchen,  a  room  which  served  those  ladies  as  a 
private  oratory  in  the  summer-time,  much  prayer 
was  offered  up  that  his  eyes  might  be  opened 
ere  it  was  too  late.  But  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  they  were  open  all  the  time,  that,  at  all 
events,  they  were  what  the  French  call  entr'ouvert, 
that  enough  light  for  practical  purposes  came 
sifted  in  through  his  eyelashes.  At  a  later  time, 
being  reminded  of  Miss  Wilkes,  he  said  with  a 
certain  complaisance,  "Ah,  yes!  she  proffered 
much  entertainment  during  my  widowed  years!" 
He  used  to  go  down  to  her  boarding-school, 
the  garden  of  which  had  been  the  scene  of  a 
murder,  and  was  romantically  situated  on  the 
edge  of  a  quarried  cliff;  he  always  took  me 
with  him,  and  kept  me  at  his  side  all  through 
these  visits,  notwithstanding  Miss  Wilkes'  solici- 
tude that  the  fatigue  and  excitement  would  be 
too  much  for  the  dear  child's  strength,  unless 
I  rested  a  little  on  the  parlour  sofa. 

About  this  time,  the  question  of  my  educa- 
tion came  up  for  discussion  in  the  household, 
as  indeed  it  well  might.    Miss  Marks  had  long 

176 


FATHER   AND   SON 

proved  practically  inadequate  in  this  respect, 
her  slender  acquirements  evaporating,  I  suppose, 
like  the  drops  of  water  under  the  microscope, 
while  the  field  of  her  general  duties  became 
wider.  The  subjects  in  which  I  took  pleasure, 
and  upon  which  I  possessed  books,  I  sedulously 
taught  myself;  the  other  subjects,  which  formed 
the  vast  majority,  I  did  not  learn  at  all.  Like 
Aurora  Leigh, 

I  brushed  with  extreme  flounce 
The  circle  of  the  universe, 

especially  zoology,  botany  and  astronomy,  but 
with  the  explicit  exception  of  geology,  which 
my  Father  regarded  as  tending  directly  to  the 
encouragement  of  infidelity.  I  copied  a  great 
quantity  of  maps,  and  read  all  the  books  of 
travels  that  I  could  find.  But  I  acquired  no 
mathematics,  no  languages,  no  history,  so  that 
I  was  in  danger  of  gross  illiteracy  in  these  im- 
portant departments. 

My  Father  grudged  the  time,  but  he  felt  it  a 
duty  to  do  something  to  fill  up  these  deficiencies, 
and  we  now  started  Latin,  in  a  little  eighteenth- 
century  reading-book,  out  of  which  my  Grand- 
father had  been  taught.  It  consisted  of  strings 
of  words,  and  of  grim  arrangements  of  conjunc- 
tion and  declension,  presented  in  a  manner  appal- 

177 


FATHER   AND   SON 

lingly  unattractive.  I  used  to  be  set  down  in  the 
study,  under  my  Father's  eye,  to  learn  a  solid 
page  of  this  compilation,  while  he  wrote  or  painted. 
The  window  would  be  open  in  summer,  and  my 
seat  was  close  to  it.  Outside  a  bee  was  shaking 
the  clematis-blossom,  or  a  red-admiral  butterfly 
was  opening  and  shutting  his  wings  on  the  hot 
concrete  of  the  verandah,  or  a  blackbird  was 
racing  across  the  lawn.  It  was  almost  more  than 
human  nature  could  bear  to  have  to  sit  holding 
up  to  my  face  the  dreary  little  Latin  book,  with 
its  sheep-skin  cover  that  smelt  of  mildewed  paste. 
But  out  of  this  strength  there  came  an  un- 
expected sudden  sweetness.  The  exercise  of 
hearing  me  repeat  my  strings  of  nouns  and 
verbs  had  revived  in  my  Father  his  memories 
of  the  classics.  In  the  old  solitary  years,  a 
long  time  ago,  by  the  shores  of  Canadian  rapids, 
on  the  edge  of  West  Indian  swamps,  his  Virgil 
had  been  an  inestimable  solace  to  him.  To 
extremely  devout  persons,  there  is  something 
objectionable  in  most  of  the  great  writers  of 
antiquity.  Horace,  Lucretius,  Terence,  Catullus, 
Juvenal, — in  each  there  is  one  quality  or  another 
definitely  repulsive  to  a  reader  who  is  determined 
to  know  nothing  but  Christ  and  him  crucified. 
From  time  immemorial,  however,  it  has  been 
recognised   in    the    Christian    church   that   this 

178 


FATHER   AND   SON 

objection  does  not  apply  to  Virgil.  He  is  the 
most  evangelical  of  the  classics ;  he  is  the  one  who 
can  be  enjoyed  with  least  to  explain  away  and 
least  to  excuse.  One  evening  my  Father  took 
down  his  Virgil  from  an  upper  shelf,  and  his 
thoughts  wandered  away  from  surrounding  things ; 
he  travelled  in  the  past  again.  The  book  was  a 
Delphin  edition  of  1798,  which  had  followed  him 
in  all  his  wanderings;  there  was  a  great  scratch 
on  the  sheep-skin  cover  that  a  thorn  had  made  in 
a  forest  of  Alabama.  And  then,  in  the  twilight, 
as  he  shut  the  volume  at  last,  oblivious  of  my 
presence,  he  began  to  murmur  and  to  chant  the 
adorable  verses  by  memory. 

Tityre,  tu  patulse  recubans  sub  tegmine  fagi, 

he  warbled ;  and  I  stopped  my  play,  and  listened 
as  if  to  a  nightingale,  till  he  reached 

tu,  Tityre,  lentus  in  umbra 
Formosam  resonare  doces  Amaryllida  silvas. 

"0  Papa,  what  is  that?"  I  could  not  prevent 
myself  from  asking.  He  translated  the  verses,  he 
explained  their  meaning,  but  his  exposition  gave 
me  little  interest.  What  to  me  was  beautiful 
Amaryllis?  She  and  her  love-sick  Tityrus  awak- 
ened no  image  whatever  in  my  mind. 

But  a  miracle  had  been  revealed  to  me, 
179 


FATHER   AND   SON 

the  incalculable,  the  amazing  beauty  which  could 
exist  in  the  sound  of  verses.  My  prosodical 
instinct  was  awakened,  quite  suddenly  that 
dim  evening,  as  my  Father  and  I  sat  alone  in 
the  breatfast-room  after  tea,  serenely  accepting 
the  hour,  for  once,  with  no  idea  of  exhortation 
or  profit.  Verse,  "a  breeze  mid  blossoms  play- 
ing," as  Coleridge  says,  descended  from  the 
roses  as  a  moth  might  have  done,  and  the  magic 
of  it  took  hold  of  my  heart  for  ever.  I  per- 
suaded my  Father,  who  was  a  little  astonished 
at  my  insistence,  to  repeat  the  lines  over  and 
over  again.  At  last  my  brain  caught  them,  and 
as  I  walked  in  Benny's  garden,  or  as  I  hung  over 
the  tidal  pools  at  the  edge  of  the  sea,  all  my 
inner  being  used  to  ring  out  with  the  sound  of 

Formosam  resonare  doces  Amaryllida  silvas. 


180 


CHAPTER  VIII 

In  the  previous  chapter  I  have  dwelt  on  some 
of  the  lighter  conditions  of  our  life  at  this  time; 
I  must  now  turn  to  it  in  a  less  frivolous  aspect. 
As  my  tenth  year  advanced,  the  development 
of  my  character  gave  my  Father,  I  will  not  say, 
anxiety,  but  matter  for  serious  reflection.  My 
intelligence  was  now  perceived  to  be  taking  a 
sudden  start ;  visitors  drew  my  Father's  attention 
to  the  fact  that  I  was  "  coming  out  so  much." 
I  grew  rapidly  in  stature,  having  been  a  little 
shrimp  of  a  thing  up  to  that  time,  and  I  no 
longer  appeared  much  younger  than  my  years. 
Looking  back,  I  do  not  think  that  there  was  any 
sudden  mental  development,  but  that  the  change 
was  mainly  a  social  one.  I  had  been  reserved, 
timid  and  taciturn;  I  had  disliked  the  company 
of  strangers.  But  with  my  tenth  year,  I  certainly 
unfolded,  so  far  as  to  become  sociable  and  talka- 
tive, and  perhaps  I  struck  those  around  me  as 
grown  "clever,"  because  I  said  the  things  which 

181 


FATHER   AND    SON 

I  had  previously  only  thought.  There  was  a 
change,  no  doubt,  yet  I  believe  that  it  was  mainly 
physical,  rather  than  mental.  My  excessive 
fragility — or  apparent  fragility,  for  I  must  have 
been  always  wiry — decreased;  I  slept  better,  and 
therefore  grew  less  nervous;  I  ate  better,  and 
therefore  put  on  flesh.  If  I  preserved  a  delicate 
look — people  still  used  to  say  in  my  presence, 
"That  dear  child  is  not  long  for  this  world!" — it 
was  in  consequence  of  a  sort  of  habit  into  which 
my  body  had  grown ;  it  was  a  transparency  which 
did  not  speak  of  what  was  in  store  for  me,  but 
of  what  I  had  already  passed  through. 

The  increased  activity  of  my  intellectual 
system  now  showed  itself  in  what  I  believe  to 
be  a  very  healthy  form,  direct  imitation.  The 
rage  for  what  is  called  "originality"  is  pushed 
to  such  a  length  in  these  days  that  even  children 
are  not  considered  promising,  unless  they  at- 
tempt things  preposterous  and  unparalleled. 
From  his  earliest  hour,  the  ambitious  person  is 
told  that  to  make  a  road  where  none  has  walked 
before,  to  do  easily  what  it  is  impossible  for 
others  to  do  at  all,  to  create  new  forms  of  thought 
and  expression,  are  the  only  recipes  for  genius; 
and  in  trying  to  escape  on  all  sides  from  every 
resemblance  to  his  predecessors,  he  adopts  at 
once  an  air  of  eccentricity  and  pretentiousness. 

182 


FATHER   AND   SON 

This  continues  to  be  the  accepted  view  of  origi- 
nality ;  but,  in  spite  of  this  conventional  opinion, 
I  hold  that  the  healthy  sign  of  an  activity  of 
mind  in  early  youth  is  not  to  be  striving  after 
unheard-of  miracles,  but  to  imitate  closely  and 
carefully  what  is  being  said  and  done  in  the 
vicinity.  The  child  of  a  great  sculptor  will 
hang  about  the  studio,  and  will  try  to  hammer 
a  head  out  of  a  waste  piece  of  marble  with  a 
nail;  it  does  not  follow  that  he  too  will  be  a 
sculptor.  The  child  of  a  politician  will  sit  in 
committee  with  a  row  of  empty  chairs,  and 
will  harangue  an  imaginary  senate  from  behind 
the  curtains.  I,  the  son  of  a  man  who  looked 
through  a  microscope  and  painted  what  he 
saw  there,  would  fain  observe  for  myself,  and 
paint  my  observations.  It  did  not  follow,  alas! 
that  I  was  built  to  be  a  miniature-painter  or  a 
savant,  but  the  activity  of  a  childish  intelligence 
was  shown  by  my  desire  to  copy  the  results  of 
such  energy  as  I  saw  nearest  at  hand. 

In  the  secular  direction,  this  now  took  the 
form  of  my  preparing  little  monographs  on  sea- 
side creatures,  which  were  arranged,  tabulated 
and  divided  as  exactly  as  possible  on  the  pattern 
of  those  which  my  Father  was  composing  for 
his  "Actinologia  Britannica."  I  wrote  these 
out  upon  sheets  of  paper  of  the  same  size  as 

183 


FATHER   AND   SON 

his  printed  page,  and  I  adorned  them  with 
water-colour  plates,  meant  to  emulate  his  pre- 
cise and  exquisite  illustrations.  One  or  two 
of  these  ludicrous  postiches  are  still  preserved, 
and  in  glancing  at  them  now  I  wonder,  not  at 
any  skill  that  they  possess,  but  at  the  persever- 
ance and  the  patience,  the  evidence  of  close  and 
persistent  labour.  I  was  not  set  to  these  tasks 
by  my  Father,  who,  in  fact,  did  not  much  ap- 
prove of  them.  He  was  touched,  too,  with 
the  " originality"  heresy,  and  exhorted  me  not 
to  copy  him,  but  to  go  out  into  the  garden  or 
the  shore  and  describe  something  new,  in  a  new 
way.  That  was  quite  impossible;  I  possessed 
no  initiative.  But  I  can  now  well  understand 
why  my  Father,  very  indulgently  and  good- 
temperedly,  deprecated  these  exercises  of  mine. 
They  took  up,  and,  as  he  might  well  think, 
wasted,  an  enormous  quantity  of  time;  and 
they  were,  moreover,  parodies,  rather  than 
imitations,  of  his  writings,  for  I  invented  new 
species,  with  sapphire  spots  and  crimson  tentacles 
and  amber  bands,  which  were  close  enough  to 
his  real  species  to  be  disconcerting.  He  came 
from  conscientiously  shepherding  the  flocks  of 
ocean,  and  I  do  not  wonder  that  my  ring-straked, 
speckled  and  spotted  varieties  put  him  out  of 
countenance.    If  I  had  not  been  so  innocent  and 

184 


FATHER   AND   SON 

solemn,  he  might  have  fancied  I  was  mocking 
him. 

These  extraordinary  excursions  into  science, 
falsely  so  called,  occupied  a  large  part  of  my 
time.  There  was  a  little  spare  room  at  the 
back  of  our  house,  dedicated  to  lumber  and  to 
empty  portmanteaux.  There  was  a  table  in  it 
already,  and  I  added  a  stool;  this  cheerless 
apartment  now  became  my  study.  I  spent  so 
many  hours  here,  in  solitude  and  without  making 
a  sound,  that  my  Father's  curiosity,  if  not  his 
suspicion,  was  occasionally  roused,  and  he  would 
make  a  sudden  raid  on  me.  I  was  always  dis- 
covered, doubled  up  over  the  table,  with  my 
pen  and  ink,  or  else  my  box  of  colours  and  tum- 
bler of  turbid  water  by  my  hand,  working  away 
like  a  Chinese  student  shut  up  in  his  matriculat- 
ing box.  It  might  have  been  done  for  a  wager, 
if  anything  so  sinful  had  ever  been  dreamed 
of  in  our  pious  household.  The  apparatus  was 
slow  and  laboured.  In  order  to  keep  my  un- 
couth handwriting  in  bounds,  I  was  obliged  to 
rule  not  lines  only,  but  borders  to  my  pages. 
The  subject  did  not  lend  itself  to  any  flow  of 
language,  and  I  was  obliged  incessantly  to  bor- 
row sentences,  word  for  word,  from  my  Father's 
published  books.  Discouraged  by  every  one 
around  me,  daunted  by  the  laborious  effort  need- 

185 


FATHER   AND   SON 

fill  to  cany  out  the  scheme,  it  seems  odd  to  me 
now  that  I  persisted  in  so  strange  and  wearisome 
an  employment,  but  it  became  an  absorbing 
passion,  and  was  indugled  in  to  the  neglect  of 
other  lessons  and  other  pleasures. 

My  Father,  as  the  spring  advanced,  used  to 
come  up  to  the  Box-room,  as  my  retreat  was 
called,  and  hunt  me  out  into  the  sunshine.  But 
I  soon  crept  back  to  my  mania.  It  gave  him 
much  trouble,  and  Miss  Marks,  who  thought 
it  sheer  idleness,  was  vociferous  in  objection. 
She  would  have  gladly  torn  up  all  my  writings 
and  paintings,  and  have  set  me  to  a  useful  task. 
My  Father,  with  his  strong  natural  individualism, 
could  not  take  this  view.  He  was  interested 
in  this  strange  freak  of  mine,  and  he  could  not 
wholly  condemn  it.  But  he  must  have  thought 
it  a  little  crazy,  and  it  is  evident  to  me  now 
that  it  led  to  the  revolution  in  domestic  polity 
by  which  he  began  to  encourage  my  acquaint- 
ance with  other  young  people  as  much  as 
he  had  previously  discouraged  it.  He  saw 
that  I  could  not  be  allowed  to  spend  my  whole 
time  in  a  little  stuffy  room  making  solemn  and 
ridiculous  imitations  of  Papers  read  before  the 
Linnsean  Society.  He  was  grieved,  moreover, 
at  the  badness  of  my  pictures,  for  I  had  no  native 
skill;  and  he  tried  to  teach  me  his  own  system 

186 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  miniature-painting  as  applied  to  natural 
history.  I  was  forced,  in  deep  depression  of 
spirits,  to  turn  from  my  grotesque  monographs, 
and  paint  under  my  Father's  eye,  and  from  a 
finished  drawing  of  his,  a  gorgeous  tropic  bird 
in  flight.  Aided  by  my  habit  of  imitation, 
I  did  at  length  produce  something  which  might 
have  shown  promise,  if  it  had  not  been  wrung 
from  me,  touch  by  touch,  pigment  by  pigment, 
under  the  orders  of  a  task-master. 

All  this  had  its  absurd  side,  but  I  seem  to 
perceive  that  it  had  also  its  value.  It  is,  surely, 
a  mistake  to  look  too  near  at  hand  for  the  bene- 
fits of  education.  What  is  actually  taught  in 
early  childhood  is  often  that  part  of  training 
which  makes  least  impression  on  the  character, 
and  is  of  the  least  permanent  importance.  My 
labours  failed  to  make  me  a  zoologist,  and  the 
multitude  of  my  designs  and  my  descriptions 
have  left  me  helplessly  ignorant  of  the  anatomy 
of  a  sea-anemone.  But  I  cannot  look  upon  the 
mental  discipline  as  useless.  It  taught  me  to 
concentrate  my  attention,  to  define  the  nature 
of  distinctions,  to  see  accurately,  and  to  name 
what  I  saw.  Moreover,  it  gave  me  the  habit  of 
going  on  with  any  piece  of  work  I  had  in  hand, 
not  flagging  because  the  interest  or  pictu- 
resqueness  of  the  theme  had  declined,  but  pushing 

187 


FATHER   AND   SON 

forth  towards  a  definite  goal,  well-foreseen  and 
limited  beforehand.  For  almost  any  intellectual 
employment  in  later  life,  it  seems  to  me  that 
this  discipline  was  valuable.  I  am,  however,  not 
the  less  conscious  how  ludicrous  was  the  mode  in 
which,  in  my  tenth  year,  I  obtained  it. 

My  spiritual  condition  occupied  my  Father's 
thoughts  very  insistently  at  this  time.  Closing, 
as  he  did,  most  of  the  doors  of  worldly  pleasure 
and  energy  upon  his  conscience,  he  had  con- 
tinued to  pursue  his  scientific  investigations 
without  any  sense  of  sin.  Most  fortunate  it 
was,  that  the  collecting  of  marine  animals  in 
the  tidal  pools,  and  the  description  of  them  in 
pages  which  were  addressed  to  the  wide  scientific 
public,  at  no  time  occurred  to  him  as  in  any 
way  inconsistent  with  his  holy  calling.  His 
conscience  was  so  delicate,  and  often  so  morbid 
in  its  delicacy,  that  if  that  had  occurred  to  him, 
he  would  certainly  have  abandoned  his  investi- 
gations, and  have  been  left  without  an  employ- 
ment. But  happily  he  justified  his  investigation 
by  regarding  it  as  a  glorification  of  God's  created 
works.  In  the  introduction  to  his  "Actinologia 
Britannica,"  written  at  the  time  which  I  have 
now  reached  in  this  narrative,  he  sent  forth  his 
labours  with  a  phrase  which  I  should  think  un- 
paralleled  in    connection    with    a    learned    and 

188 


FATHER   AND   SON 

technical  biological  treatise.  He  stated  concern- 
ing that  book,  that  he  published  it  "as  one  more 
tribute  humbly  offered  to  the  glory  of  the  Triune 
God,  who  is  wonderful  in  counsel,  and  excellent 
in  working."  Scientific  investigation  sincerely 
carried  out  in  that  spirit  became  a  kind  of  week- 
day interpretation  of  the  current  creed  of  Sun- 
days. 

The  development  of  my  faculties,  of  which 
I  have  spoken,  extended  to  the  religious  sphere 
no  less  than  to  the  secular.  Here  also,  as  I 
look  back,  I  see  that  I  was  extremely  imitative. 
I  expanded  in  the  warmth  of  my  Father's  fervour, 
and,  on  the  whole,  in  a  manner  that  was 
satisfactory  to  him.  He  observed  the  richer 
hold  that  I  was  now  taking  on  life;  he  saw  my 
faculties  branching  in  many  directions,  and  he 
became  very  anxious  to  secure  my  maintenance 
in  grace.  In  earlier  years,  certain  sides  of  my 
character  had  offered  a  sort  of  passive  resistance 
to  his  ideas.  I  had  let  what  I  did  not  care  to 
welcome  pass  over  my  mind  in  the  curious  density 
that  children  adopt  in  order  to  avoid  receiving 
impressions — blankly,  dumbly,  achieving  by  stu- 
pidity what  they  cannot  achieve  by  argument. 
I  think  that  I  had  frequently  done  this;  that 
he  had  been  brought  up  against  a  dead  wall; 
although  on  other  sides  of  my  nature  I  had  been 

189 


FATHER   AND   SON 

responsive  and  docile.  But  now,  in  my  tenth 
year,  the  imitative  faculty  got  the  upper  hand, 
and  nothing  seemed  so  attractive  as  to  be  what 
I  was  expected  to  be.  If  there  was  a  doubt  now, 
it  lay  in  the  other  direction;  it  seemed  hardly 
normal  that  so  young  a  child  should  appear  so 
receptive  and  so  apt. 

My  Father  believed  himself  justified,  at  this 
juncture,  in  making  a  tremendous  effort.  He 
wished  to  secure  me  finally,  exhaustively,  before 
the  age  of  puberty  could  dawn,  before  my  soul 
was  fettered  with  the  love  of  carnal  things.  He 
thought  that  if  I  could  now  be  identified  with 
the  " saints,"  and  could  stand  on  exactly  their 
footing,  a  habit  of  conformity  would  be  secured. 
I  should  meet  the  paganising  tendencies  of  ad- 
vancing years  with  security  if  I  could  be  fore- 
armed with  all  the  weapons  of  a  sanctified  life.  He 
wished  me,  in  short,  to  be  received  into  the  com- 
munity of  the  Brethren  on  the  terms  of  an  adult. 
There  were  difficulties  in  the  way  of  carrying 
out  this  scheme,  and  they  were  urged  upon  him, 
more  or  less  courageously,  by  the  elders  of  the 
church.  But  he  overbore  them.  What  the  diffi- 
culties were,  and  what  were  the  arguments  which 
he  used  to  sweep  those  'difficulties  away,  I  must 
now  explain,  for  in  this  lay  the  centre  of  our 
future  relations  as  father  and  son. 

190 


FATHER   AND   SON 

In  dealing  with  the  peasants  around  him, 
among  whom  he  was  engaged  in  an  active  propa- 
ganda, my  Father  always  insisted  on  the  neces- 
sity of  conversion.  There  must  be  a  new  birth 
and  being,  a  fresh  creation  in  God.  This  crisis 
he  was  accustomed  to  regard  as  manifesting 
itself  in  a  sudden  and  definite  upheaval.  There 
might  have  been  prolonged  practical  piety, 
deep  and  true  contrition  for  sin,  but  these,  al- 
though the  natural  and  suitable  prologue  to  con- 
version, were  not  conversion  itself.  People  hung 
on  at  the  confines  of  regeneration,  often  for  a 
very  long  time;  my  Father  dealt  earnestly  with 
them,  the  elders  ministered  to  them,  with  ex- 
planation, exhortation  and  prayer.  Such  persons 
were  in  a  gracious  state,  but  they  were  not  in 
a  state  of  grace.  If  they  should  suddenly  die, 
they  would  pass  away  in  an  unconverted  con- 
dition, and  all  that  could  be  said  in  their  favour 
was  a  vague  expression  of  hope  that  they  would 
benefit  from  God's  uncovenanted  mercies. 

But  on  some  day,  at  some  hour  and  minute,  if 
life  was  spared  to' them,  the  way  of  salvation 
would  be  revealed  to  these  persons  in  such  an 
aspect  that  they  would  be  enabled  instanta- 
neously to  accept  it.  They  would  take  it  con- 
sciously, as  one  takes  a  gift  from  the  hand  that 
offers  it.    This  act  of  taking  was  the  process 

191 


FATHER  AND   SON 

of  conversion,  and  the  person  who  so  accepted 
was  a  child  of  God  now,  although  a  single  minute 
ago  he  had  been  a  child  of  wrath.  The  very- 
root  of  human  nature  had  to  be  changed,  and, 
in  the  majority  of  cases,  this  change  was  sudden, 
patent,  palpable. 

I  have  just  said,  "in  the  majority  of  cases," 
because  my  Father  admitted  the  possibility  of 
exceptions.  The  formula  was,  "If  any  man 
hath  not  the  Spirit  of  Christ,  he  is  none  of  his." 
As  a  rule,  no  one  could  possess  the  Spirit  of 
Christ,  without  a  conscious  and  full  abandonment 
of  the  soul,  and  this,  however  carefully  led  up  to, 
and  prepared  for  with  tears  and  renunciations,  was 
not,  could  not,  be  made,  except  at  a  set  moment 
of  time.  Faith,  in  an  esoteric  and  almost  sym- 
bolic sense,  was  necessary,  and  could  not  be  a 
result  of  argument,  but  was  a  state  of  heart.  In 
these  opinions  my  Father  departed  no  wise  from 
the  strict  evangelical  doctrine  of  the  Protestant 
churches,  but  he  held  it  in  a  mode  and  with  a 
severity  peculiar  to  himself.  Now,  it  is  plain 
that  this  state  of  heart,  this  voluntary  deed  of 
acceptance,  presupposed  a  full  and  rational 
consciousness  of  the  relations  of  things.  It 
might  be  clearly  achieved  by  a  person  of  hum- 
ble cultivation,  but  only  by  one  who  was  fully 
capable  of  independent  thought,  in  other  words 

192 


FATHER   AND   SON 

by  a  more  or  less  adult  person.  The  man  or 
woman  claiming  the  privileges  of  conversion 
must  be  able  to  understand  and  to  grasp  what 
his  religious  education  was  aiming  at. 

It  is  extraordinary  what  trouble  it  often  gave 
my  Father  to  know  whether  he  was  justified  in 
admitting  to  the  communion  people  of  very  lim- 
ited powers  of  expression.  A  harmless,  humble 
labouring  man  would  come  with  a  request  to  be 
allowed  to  "break  bread."  It  was  only  by  the 
use  of  strong  leading  questions  that  he  could  be 
induced  to  mention  Christ  as  the  ground  of  his 
trust  at  all.  I  recollect  an  elderly  agricultural 
labourer  being  closeted  for  a  long  time  with  my 
Father,  who  came  out  at  last,  in  a  sort  of  dazed 
condition,  and  replied  to  our  inquiries, — with  a 
shrug  of  his  shoulders  as  he  said  it, — "I  was  obliged 
to  put  the  Name  and  Blood  and  Work  of  Jesus 
into  his  very  mouth.  It  is  true  that  he  assented 
cordially  at  last,  but  I  confess  I  was  grievously 
daunted  by  the  poor  intelligence!" 

But  there  was,  or  there  might  be,  another  class 
of  persons,  whom  early  training,  separation  from 
the  world,  and  the  care  of  godly  parents  had  so 
early  familiarised  with  the  acceptable  calling  of 
Christ  that  their  conversion  had  occurred,  unper- 
ceived  and  therefore  unrecorded,  at  an  extraor- 
dinarily early  age.  It  would  be  in  vain  to  look  for 

193 


FATHER   AND   SON 

a  repetition  of  the  phenomenon  in  those  cases. 
The  heavenly  fire  must  not  be  expected  to  descend 
a  second  time ;  the  lips  are  touched  with  the  burn- 
ing coal  once,  and  once  only.  If,  accordingly,  these 
precociously  selected  spirits  are  to  be  excluded 
because  no  new  birth  is  observed  in  them  at  a 
mature  age,  they  must  continue  outside  in  the 
cold,  since  the  phenomenon  cannot  be  repeated. 
When,  therefore,  there  is  not  possible  any  further 
doubt  of  their  being  in  possession  of  salvation, 
longer  delay  is  useless,  and  worse  than  useless. 
The  fact  of  conversion,  though  not  recorded  nor 
even  recollected,  must  be  accepted  on  the  evi- 
dence of  confession  of  faith,  and  as  soon  as  the 
intelligence  is  evidently  developed,  the  person 
not  merely  may,  but  should  be  accepted  into  com- 
munion, although  still  immature  in  body,  although 
in  years  still  even  a  child.  This  my  Father  be- 
lieved to  be  my  case,  and  in  this  rare  class  did  he 
fondly  persuade  himself  to  station  me. 

As  I  have  said,  the  congregation, — although 
docile  and  timid,  and  little  able,  as  units,  to  hold 
their  own  against  their  minister, — behind  his  back 
were  faintly  hostile  to  this  plan.  None  of  their 
own  children  had  ever  been  so  much  as  suggested 
for  membership,  and  each  of  themselves,  in  ripe 
years,  had  been  subjected  to  severe  cross-exam- 
ination.   I  think  it  was  rather  a  bitter  pill  for 

194 


FATHER   AND   SON 

some  of  them  to  swallow  that  a  pert  little  boy  of 
ten  should  be  admitted,  as  a  grown-up  person,  to 
all  the  hard-won  privileges  of  their  order.  Mary 
Grace  Burmington  came  back  from  her  visits  to 
the  cottagers,  reporting  disaffection  here  and 
there,  grumblings  in  the  rank  and  file.  But  quite 
as  many,  especially  of  the  women,  enthusiastically 
supported  my  Father's  wish,  gloried  aloud  in  the 
manifestations  of  my  early  piety,  and  professed 
to  see  in  it  something  of  miraculous  promise. 
The  expression  "another  Infant  Samuel"  was 
widely  used.  I  became  quite  a  subject  of  con- 
tention. A  war  of  the  sexes  threatened  to  break 
out  over  me;  I  was  a  disturbing  element  at  cot- 
tage breakfasts.  I  was  mentioned  at  public 
prayer-meetings,  not  indeed  by  name,  but,  in 
the  extraordinary  illusive  way  customary  in  the 
devotions,  as  "one  amongst  us  of  tender  years" 
or  as  "a  sapling  in  the  Lord's  vineyard." 

To  all  this  my  Father  put  a  stop  in  his  own 
high-handed  fashion.  After  the  morning  meet- 
ing, one  Sunday  in  the  autumn  of  1859,  he  de- 
sired the  attention  of  the  saints  to  a  personal 
matter  which  was,  perhaps,  not  unfamiliar  to 
them  by  rumour.  That  was,  he  explained,  the 
question  of  the  admission  of  his  beloved  little 
son  to  the  communion  of  saints  in  the  breaking  of 
bread.    He  allowed — and  I  sat  there  in  evidence, 

195 


FATHER   AND   SON 

palely  smiling  at  the  audience,  my  feet  scarcely 
touching  the  ground — that  I  was  not  what  is  styled 
adult;  I  was  not,  he  frankly  admitted,  a  grown- 
up person.  But  I  was  adult  in  a  knowledge  of 
the  Lord;  I  possessed  an  insight  into  the  plan  of 
salvation  which  many  a  hoary  head  might  envy 
for  its  fullness,  its  clearness,  its  conformity  with 
Scripture  doctrine.  This  was  a  palpable  hit  at 
more  than  one  stumbler  and  fumbler  after  the 
truth,  and  several  hoary  heads  were  bowed. 
My  Father  then  went  on  to  explain  very  fully 
the  position  which  I  have  already  attempted  to 
define.  He  admitted  the  absence  in  my  case 
of  a  sudden,  apparent  act  of  conversion  resulting 
upon  conviction  of  sin.  But  he  stated  the  grounds 
of  his  belief  that  I  had,  in  still  earlier  infancy,  been 
converted,  and  he  declared  that  if  so,  I  ought  no 
longer  to  be  excluded  from  the  privileges  of  com- 
munion. He  said,  mroeover,  that  he  was  will- 
ing on  this  occasion  to  waive  his  own  privilege 
as  a  minister,  and  that  he  would  rather  call  on 
Brother  Fawkes  and  Brother  Bere,  the  leading 
elders,  to  examine  the  candidate  in  his  stead. 
This  was  a  master-stroke,  for  Brothers  Fawkes  and 
Bere  had  been  suspected  of  leading  the  disaffec- 
tion, and  this  threw  all  the  burden  of  responsi- 
bility on  them.  The  meeting  broke  up  in  great 
amiability,  and  my  Father  and  I  went  home  to- 

196 


FATHER   AND   SON 

gether  in  the  very  highest  of  spirits.  I,  indeed, 
in  my  pride,  touched  the  verge  of  indiscretion 
by  saying:  "When  I  have  been  admitted  to  fellow- 
ship, Papa,  shall  I  be  allowed  to  call  you  'be- 
loved Brother '?"  My  Father  was  too  well 
pleased  with  the  morning's  work  to  be  critical. 
He  laughed,  and  answered;  "That,  my  love, 
though  strictly  correct,  would  hardly,  I  fear,  be 
thought  judicious!" 

It  was  suggested  that  my  tenth  birthday, 
which  followed  this  public  announcement  by  a 
few  days,  would  be  a  capital  occasion  for  me  to 
go  through  the  ordeal.  Accordingly,  after  dark 
(for  our  new  lamp  was  lighted  for  the  first  time 
in  honour  of  the  event),  I  withdrew  alone  into  our 
drawing-room,  which  had  just,  at  length,  been 
furnished,  and  which  looked,  I  thought,  very 
smart.  Hither  came  to  me,  first  Brother  Fawkes, 
by  himself;  then  Brother  Bere,  by  himself;  and 
then  both  together,  so  that  you  may  say,  if  you 
are  pedantically  inclined,  that  I  underwent  three 
successive  interviews.  My  Father,  out  of  sight 
somewhere,  was,  of  course,  playing  the  part  of 
stage  manager. 

I  felt  not  at  all  shy,  but  so  highly  strung  that 
my  whole  nature  seemed  to  throb  with  excitement. 
My  first  examiner,  on  the  other  hand,  was  ex- 
tremely confused.    Fawkes,  who  was  a  builder  in 

197 


FATHER   AND   SON 

a  small  business  of  his  own,  was  short  and  fat ;  his 
complexion,  which  wore  a  deeper  and  more  uni- 
form rose-colour  than  usual,  I  observed  to  be 
starred  with  dewdrops  of  nervous  emotion,  which 
he  wiped  away  at  intervals  with  a  large  bandana 
handkerchief.  He  was  so  long  in  coming  to  the 
point,  that  I  was  obliged  to  lead  him  to  it  my- 
self, and  I  sat  up  on  the  sofa  in  the  full  lamplight, 
and  testified  my  faith  in  the  atonement  with  a 
fluency  that  surprised  myself.  Before  I  had  done, 
Fawkes,  a  middle-aged  man  with  the  reputation  of 
being  a  very  stiff  employer  of  labour,  was  weeping 
like  a  child. 

Bere,  the  carpenter,  a  long,  thin  and  dry  man, 
with  a  curiously  immobile  eye,  did  not  fall  so 
easily  a  prey  to  my  fascinations.  He  put  me 
through  my  paces  very  sharply,  for  he  had  some- 
thing of  the  temper  of  an  attorney  mingled  with 
his  religiousness.  However,  I  was  equal  to  him, 
and  he,  too,  though  he  held  his  own  head  higher, 
was  not  less  impressed  than  Fawkes  had  been,  by 
the  surroundings  of  the  occasion.  Neither  of 
them  had  ever  been  in  our  drawing-room  since  it 
was  furnished,  and  I  thought  that  each  of  them 
noticed  how  smart  the  wall-paper  was.  Indeed, 
I  believe  I  drew  their  attention  to  it.  After  the 
two  solitary  examinations  were  over,  the  elders 
came  in  again,  as  I  have  said,  and  they  prayed 

198 


FATHER   AND   SON 

for  a  long  time.  We  all  three  knelt  at  the  sofa,  I 
between  them.  But  by  this  time,  to  my  great 
exaltation  of  spirits  there  had  succeeded  an 
equally  dismal  depression.  It  was  my  turn  now 
to  weep,  and  I  dimly  remember  my  Father  com- 
ing into  the  room,  and  my  being  carried  up  to  bed, 
in  a  state  of  collapse  and  fatigue,  by  the  silent 
and  kindly  Miss  Marks. 

On  the  following  Sunday  morning,  I  was  the 
principal  subject  which  occupied  an  unusually 
crowded  meeting.  My  Father,  looking  whiter 
and  yet  darker  than  usual,  called  upon  Brother 
Fawkes  and  Brother  Bere  to  state  to  the  assembled 
saints  what  their  experiences  had  been  in  con- 
nection with  their  visits  to  "one"  who  desired 
to  be  admitted  to  the  breaking  of  bread.  It  was 
tremendously  exciting  to  me  to  hear  myself 
spoken  of  with  this  impersonal  publicity,  and  I 
had  no  fear  of  the  result. 

Events  showed  that  I  had  no  need  of  fear. 
Fawkes  and  Bere  were  sometimes  accused  of 
a  rivalry,  which  indeed  broke  out  a  few  years 
later,  and  gave  my  Father  much  anxiety  and 
pain.  But  on  this  occasion  their  unanimity 
was  wonderful.  Each  strove  to  exceed  the 
other  in  the  tributes  which  they  paid  to  my  piety. 
My  answers  had  been  so  full  and  clear,  my  hu- 
mility (save  the  mark!)  had  been  so  sweet,  my 

199 


FATHER   AND   SON 

acquaintance  with  Scripture  so  amazing,  my 
testimony  to  all  the  leading  principles  of  salva- 
tion so  distinct  and  exhaustive,  that  they  could 
only  say  that  they  had  felt  confounded,  and  yet 
deeply  cheered  and  led  far  along  their  own  heav- 
enly path,  by  hearing  such  accents  fall  from  the 
lips  of  a  babe  and  a  suckling.  I  did  not  like  be- 
ing described  as  a  suckling,  but  every  lot  has  its 
crumpled  rose-leaf,  and  in  all  other  respects  the 
report  of  the  elders  was  a  triumph.  My  Father 
then  clenched  the  whole  matter  by  rising  and 
announcing  that  I  had  expressed  an  independent 
desire  to  confess  the  Lord  by  the  act  of  public 
baptism,  immediately  after  which  I  should  be  ad- 
mitted to  communion  "as  an  adult."  Emotion 
ran  so  high  at  this,  that  a  large  portion  of  the  con- 
gregation insisted  on  walking  with  us  back  to 
our  garden-gate,  to  the  stupefaction  of  the  rest 
of  the  villagers. 

My  public  baptism  was  the  central  event  of 
my  whole  childhood.  Everything,  since  the  ear- 
liest dawn  of  consciousness,  seemed  to  have  been 
leading  up  to  it.  Everything,  afterwards,  seemed 
to  be  leading  down  and  away  from  it.  The  prac- 
tice of  immersing  communicants  on  the  sea- 
beach  at  Oddicombe  had  now  been  completely 
abandoned,  but  we  possessed  as  yet  no  tank  for 
a  baptismal  purpose  in  our  own  Room.    The  Room 

200 


FATHER   AND   SON 

in  the  adjoining  town,  however,  was  really  quite 
a  large  chapel,  and  it  was  amply  provided  with 
the  needful  conveniences.  It  was  our  practice, 
therefore,  at  this  time,  to  claim  the  hospitality 
of  our  neighbours.  Baptisms  were  made  an  oc- 
casion for  friendly  relations  between  the  two  con- 
gregations, and  led  to  pleasant  social  intercourse. 
I  believe  that  the  ministers  and  elders  of  the  two 
meetings  arranged  to  combine  their  forces  at 
these  times,  and  to  baptize  communicants  from 
both  congregations. 

The  minister  of  the  town  meeting  was  Mr.  S., 
a  very  handsome  old  gentleman,  of  venerable  and 
powerful  appearance.  He  had  snowy  hair  and  a 
long  white  beard,  but  from  under  shaggy  eyebrows 
there  blazed  out  great  black  eyes  which  warned 
the  beholder  that  the  snow  was  an  ornament  and 
not  a  sign  of  decrepitude.  The  eve  of  my  bap- 
tism at  length  drew  near;  it  was  fixed  for  October 
12,  almost  exactly  three  weeks  after  my  tenth 
birthday.  I  was  dressed  in  old  clothes,  and  a  suit 
of  smarter  things  was  packed  up  in  a  carpet- 
bag. After  night-fall,  this  carpet-bag,  accom- 
panied by  my  Father,  myself,  Miss  Marks  and 
Mary  Grace,  was  put  in  a  four-wheeled  cab,  and 
driven,  a  long  way  in  the  dark,  to  the  chapel  of 
our  friends.  There  we  were  received,  in  a  blaze 
of  lights,  with  a  pressure  of  hands,  with  a  mur- 

201 


FATHER   AND   SON 

mur  of  voices,  with  ejaculations  and  even  with 
tears,  and  were  conducted,  amid  unspeakable 
emotion,  to  places  of  honour  in  the  front  row  of 
the  congregation. 

The  scene  was  one  which  would  have  been  im- 
pressive, not  merely  to  such  hermits  as  we  were, 
but  even  to  worldly  persons  accustomed  to  life 
and  to  its  curious  and  variegated  experiences. 
To  me  it  was  dazzling  beyond  words,  inexpres- 
sibly exciting,  an  initiation  to  every  kind  of  pub- 
licity and  glory.  There  were  many  candidates, 
but  the  rest  of  them, — mere  grown-up  men  and 
women, — gave  thanks  aloud  that  it  was  their 
privilege  to  follow  where  I  led.  I  was  the  ac- 
knowledged hero  of  the  hour.  Those  were  days 
when  newspaper  enterprise  was  scarcely  in  its 
infancy,  and  the  event  owed  nothing  to  journal- 
istic effort.  In  spite  of  that,  the  news  of  this  re- 
markable ceremony,  the  immersion  of  a  little 
boy  of  ten  years  old  "as  an  adult,"  had  spread 
far  and  wide  through  the  county  in  the  course 
of  three  weeks.  The  chapel  of  our  hosts  was,  as 
I  have  said,  very  large ;  it  was  commonly  too  large 
for  their  needs,  but  on  this  night  it  was  crowded 
to  the  ceiling,  and  the  crowd  had  come — as  every 
soft  murmurer  assured  me — to  see  me. 

There  were  people  there  who  had  travelled  from 
Exeter,  from  Dartmouth,  from  Totnes,  to  witness 

202 


FATHER   AND   SON 

so  extraordinary  a  ceremony.  There  was  one  old 
woman  of  eighty-five  who  had  come,  my  neigh- 
bours whispered  to  me,  all  the  way  from  Moreton- 
Hampstead,  on  purpose  to  see  me  baptized.  I 
looked  at  her  crumpled  countenance  with  amaze- 
ment, for  there  was  no  curiosity,  no  interest  vis- 
ible in  it.  She  sat  there  perfectly  listless,  look- 
ing at  nothing,  but  chewing  between  her  toothless 
gums  what  appeared  to  be  a  jujube. 

In  the  centre  of  the  chapel-floor  a  number  of 
planks  had  been  taken  up,  and  revealed  a  pool 
which  might  have  been  supposed  to  be  a  small 
swimming-bath.  We  gazed  down  into  this  dark 
square  of  mysterious  waters,  from  the  tepid  sur- 
face of  which  faint  swirls  of  vapour  rose.  The 
whole  congregation  was  arranged,  tier  above 
tier,  about  the  four  straight  sides  of  this  pool; 
every  person  was  able  to  see  what  happened  in 
it  without  any  unseemly  struggling  or  standing 
on  forms.  Mr.  S.  now  rose,  an  impressive  hier- 
atic figure,  commanding  attention  and  imploring 
perfect  silence.  He  held  a  small  book  in  his  hand, 
and  he  was  preparing  to  give  out  the  number  of  a 
hymn,  when  an  astounding  incident  took  place. 

There  was  a  great  splash,  and  a  tall  young  woman 
was  perceived  to  be  in  the  baptismal  pool,  her 
arms  waving  above  her  head,  and  her  figure  held 
upright  in  the  water  by  the  inflation  of  the  air 

203 


FATHER  AND   SON 

underneath  her  crinoline,  which  was  blown  out 
like  a  bladder,  as  in  some  extravagant  old  fashion- 
plate.  Whether  her  feet  touched  the  bottom  of 
the  font  I  cannot  say,  but  I  suppose  they  did  so. 
An  indescribable  turmoil  of  shrieks  and  cries  fol- 
lowed on  this  extraordinary  apparition.  A  great 
many  people  excitedly  called  upon  other  people 
to  be  calm,  and  an  instance  was  given  of  the  re- 
mark of  James  Smith  that 

He  who,  in  quest  of  quiet,  "Silence!"  hoots 
Is  apt  to  make  the  hubbub  he  imputes. 

The  young  woman,  in  a  more  or  less  fainting 
condition,  was  presently  removed  from  the 
water,  and  taken  into  the  sort  of  tent  which 
was  prepared  for  candidates.  It  was  found 
that  she  herself  had  wished  to  be  a  candidate 
and  had  earnestly  desired  to  be  baptized,  but 
that  this  had  been  forbidden  by  her  parents. 
On  the  supposition  that  she  fell  in  by  accident, 
a  pious  coincidence  was  detected  in  this  affair; 
the  Lord  had  pre-ordained  that  she  should  be 
baptized  in  spite  of  all  opposition.  But  my 
Father,  in  his  shrewd  way,  doubted.  He  pointed 
out  to  us,  next  morning,  that,  in  the  first  place, 
she  had  not,  in  any  sense,  been  baptized,  as 
her  head  had  not  been  immersed;  and  that, 
in  the  second  place,  she  must  have  deliberately 

204 


FATHER   AND   SON 

jumped  in,  since,  had  she  stumbled  and  fallen 
forward,  her  hands  and  face  would  have  struck 
the  water,  whereas  they  remained  quite  dry. 
She  belonged,  however,  to  the  neighbour  congre- 
gation, and  we  had  no  responsibility  to  pursue 
the  inquiry  any  further. 

Decorum  being  again  secured,  Mr.  S.,  with 
unimpaired  dignity,  proposed  to  the  congrega- 
tion a  hymn,  which  was  long  enough  to  occupy 
them  during  the  preparations  for  the  actual 
baptism.  He  then  retired  to  the  vestry,  and 
I  (for  I  was  to  be  the  first  to  testify)  was  led  by 
Miss  Marks  and  Mary  Grace  into  the  species  of 
tent  of  which  I  have  just  spoken.  Its  pale 
sides  seemed  to  shake  with  the  jubilant  singing 
of  the  saints  outside,  while  part  of  my  clothing 
was  removed  and  I  was  prepared  for  immersion. 
A  sudden  cessation  of  the  hymn  warned  us  that 
the  Minister  was  now  ready,  and  we  emerged 
into  the  glare  of  lights  and  faces  to  find  Mr.  S. 
already  standing  in  the  water  up  to  his  knees. 
Feeling  as  small  as  one  of  our  microscopical 
specimens,  almost  infinitesimally  tiny  as  I  de- 
scended into  his  Titanic  arms,  I  was  handed 
down  the  steps  to  him.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
kind  of  long  surplice,  underneath  which — as 
I  could  not,  even  in  that  moment,  help  observing 
— the  air  gathered  in  long  bubbles  which  he  strove 

205 


FATHER   AND   SON 

to  flatten  out.  The  end  of  his  noble  beard  he 
tucked  away;  his  shirt-sleeves  were  turned  up 
at  the  wrist. 

The  entire  congregation  was  now  silent,  so 
silent  that  the  uncertain  splashing  'of  my  feet 
as  I  descended  seemed  to  deafen  me.  Mr.  S., 
a  little  embarrassed  by  my  short  stature,  suc- 
ceeded at  length  in  securing  me  with  one 
palm  on  my  chest  and  the  other  between  my 
shoulders.  He  said,  slowly,  in  a  loud,  sonorous 
voice  that  seemed  to  enter  my  brain  and  empty 
it,  "I  baptize  thee,  my  Brother,  in  the  name 
of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost!"  Having  intoned  this  formula,  he  then 
gently  flung  me  backwards  until  I  was  wholly 
under  the  water,  and  then — as  he  brought  me  up 
again,  and  tenderly  steadied  my  feet  on  the 
steps  of  the  font,  and  delivered  me,  dripping 
and  sputtering,  into  the  anxious  hands  of  the 
women,  who  hurried  me  to  the  tent — the  whole 
assembly  broke  forth  in  a  thunder  of  song,  a 
paean  of  praise  to  God  for  this  manifestation  of 
his  marvellous  goodness  and  mercy.  So  great 
was  the  enthusiasm,  that  it  could  hardly  be 
restrained  so  as  to  allow  the  other  candidates, 
the  humdrum  adults  who  followed  in  my  wet 
and  glorious  footsteps,  to  imdergo  a  ritual  about 
which,  in  their  case,  no  one  in  the  congregation 

206 


FATHER   AND   SON 

pretended  to  be  able  to  take  even  the  most 
languid  interest. 

My  Father's  happiness  during  the  next  few 
weeks  it  is  now  pathetic  to  me  to  look  back  upon. 
His  sternness  melted  into  a  universal  complaisance. 
He  laughed  and  smiled,  he  paid  to  my  opinions 
the  tribute  of  the  gravest  consideration,  he  in- 
dulged,— utterly  unlike  his  wont, — in  shy  and 
furtive  caresses.  I  could  express  no  wish  that 
he  did  not  attempt  to  fulfil,  and  the  only  warning 
which  he  cared  to  give  me  was  one,  very  gently 
expressed,  against  spiritual  pride. 

This  was  certainly  required,  for  I  was  puffed  out 
with  a  sense  of  my  own  holiness.  I  was  religiously 
confidential  with  my  Father,  condescending  with 
Miss  Marks  (who  I  think  had  given  up  trying  to 
make  it  all  out),  haughty  with  the  servants  and 
insufferably  patronising  with  those  young  com- 
panions of  my  own  age  with  whom  I  was  now 
beginning  to  associate. 

I  would  fain  close  this  remarkable  episode  on  a 
key  of  solemnity,  but  alas!  if  I  am  to  be  loyal  to 
the  truth,  I  must  record  that  some  of  the  other 
little  boys  presently  complained  to  Mary  Grace 
that  I  put  out  my  tongue  at  them  in  mockery, 
during  the  service  in  the  Room,  to  remind  them 
that  I  now  broke  bread  as  one  of  the  "Saints" 
and  that  they  did  not. 

207 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  result  of  my  being  admitted  into  the  com- 
munion of  the  " Saints"  was  that,  as  soon  as  the 
nine  days'  wonder  of  the  thing  passed  by,  my 
position  became,  if  anything,  more  harassing 
and  pressed  than  ever.  It  is  true  that  freedom 
was  permitted  to  me  in  certain  directions;  I  was 
allowed  to  act  a  little  more  on  my  own  responsi- 
bility, and  was  not  so  incessantly  informed  what 
"the  Lord's  will"  might  be  in  this  matter  and 
in  that,  because  it  was  now  conceived  that,  in 
such  dilemmas,  I  could  command  private  intelli- 
gence of  my  own.  But  there  was  no  relaxation 
of  our  rigid  manner  of  life,  and  I  think  I  now 
began,  by  comparing  it  with  the  habits  of  others, 
to  perceive  how  very  strict  it  was. 

The  main  difference  in  my  lot  as  a  communicant 
from  that  of  a  mere  dweller  in  the  tents  of  right- 
eousness was  that  I  was  expected  to  respond  with 
instant  fervour  to  every  appeal  of  conscience. 
When  I  did  not  do  this,  my  position  was  almost 

208 


FATHER   AND   SON 

worse  than  it  had  been  before,  because  of  the 
livelier  nature  of  the  responsibility  which  weighed 
upon  me.  My  little  faults  of  conduct,  too, 
assumed  shapes  of  terrible  importance,  since 
they  proceeded  from  one  so  signally  enlightened. 
My  Father  was  never  tired  of  reminding  me  that, 
now  that  I  was  a  professing  Christian,  I  must 
remember,  in  everything  I  did,  that  I  was  an 
example  to  others.  He  used  to  draw  dreadful 
pictures  of  supposititious  little  boys  who  were 
secretly  watching  me  from  afar,  and  whose 
whole  career,  in  time  and  in  eternity,  might  be 
disastrously  affected  if  I  did  not  keep  my  lamp 
burning. 

The  year  which  followed  upon  my  baptism  did 
not  open  very  happily  at  the  Room.  Consider- 
able changes  had  now  taken  place  in  the  com- 
munity. My  Father's  impressive  services,  a  cer- 
tain prestige  in  his  preaching,  the  mere  fact  that 
so  vigorous  a  person  was  at  the  head  of  affairs, 
had  induced  a  large  increase  in  the  attendance. 
By  this  time,  if  my  memory  does  not  fail  me  as 
to  dates,  we  had  left  the  dismal  loft  over  the 
stables,  and  had  built  ourselves  a  perfectly  plain, 
but  commodious  and  well-arranged  chapel  in  the 
centre  of  the  village.  This  greatly  added  to  the 
prosperity  of  the  meeting.  Everything  had  com- 
bined to  make  our  services  popular,  and  had 

209 


FATHER   AND   SON 

attracted  to  us  a  new  element  of  younger  people. 
Numbers  of  youthful  masons  and  carpenters,  shop- 
girls and  domestic  servants,  found  the  Room  a 
pleasant  trysting-place,  and  were  more  or  less 
superficially  induced  to  accept  salvation  as  it 
was  offered  to  them  in  my  Father's  searching 
addresses.  My  Father  was  very  shrewd  in  deal- 
ing with  mere  curiosity  or  idle  motive,  and  sharply 
packed  off  any  youths  who  simply  came  to  make 
eyes  at  the  girls,  or  any  " maids"  whose  only 
object  was  to  display  their  new  bonnet-strings. 
But  he  was  powerless  against  a  temporary  sin- 
cerity, the  simulacrum  of  a  true  change  of  heart. 
I  have  often  heard  him  say, — of  some  young 
fellow  who  had  attended  our  services  with  fervour 
for  a  little  while,  and  then  had  turned  cold  and 
left  us, — "and  I  thought  that  the  Holy  Ghost  had 
wrought  in  him!,,  Such  disappointments  griev- 
ously depress  an  evangelist. 

Religious  bodies  are  liable  to  strange  and  un- 
accountable fluctuations.  At  the  beginning  of 
the  third  year  since  our  arrival  the  congregation 
seemed  to  be  in  a  very  prosperous  state,  as  regards 
attendance,  conversions  and  other  outward  signs 
of  activity.  Yet  it  was  quite  soon  after  this  that 
my  Father  began  to  be  harassed  by  all  sorts  of 
troubles,  and  the  spring  of  1860  was  a  critical 
moment  in  the  history  of  the  community.    Al- 

210 


FATHER   AND   SON 

though  he  loved  to  take  a  very  high  tone  about 
the  Saints,  and  involved  them  sometimes  in  a 
cloud  of  laudatory  metaphysics,  the  truth  was 
that  they  were  nothing  more  than  peasants  of  a 
somewhat  primitive  type,  not  well  instructed  in 
the  rules  of  conduct  and  liable  to  exactly  the 
same  weaknesses  as  invade  the  rural  character 
in  every  country  and  latitude.  That  they  were 
exhorted  to  behave  as  "children  of  light,"  and 
that  the  majority  of  them  sincerely  desired  to 
do  credit  to  their  high  calling,  could  not  prevent 
their  being  beset  by  the  sins  which  had  affected 
their  forebears  for  generations  past. 

The  addition  of  so  many  young  persons  of  each 
sex  to  the  communion  led  to  an  entirely  new  class 
of  embarrassment.  Now  there  arose  endless  diffi- 
culties about  "engagements,"  about  youthful 
brethren  who  "went  out  walking"  with  even  more 
youthful  sisters.  Glancing  over  my  Father's 
notes,  I  observe  the  ceaseless  repetition  of  cases 
in  which  So-and-So  is  "courting"  Such-an-one, 
followed  by  the  melancholy  record  that  he  has 
"deserted"  her.  In  my  Father's  stern  language, 
"desertion"  would  very  often  mean  no  more  than 
that  the  amatory  pair  had  blamelessly  changed 
their  minds;  but  in  some  cases  it  meant  more 
and  worse  than  this.  It  was  a  very  great  dis- 
tress to  him  that  sometimes  the  young  men  and 

211 


FATHER   AND   SON 

women  who  showed  the  most  lively  interest  in 
Scripture,  and  who  had  apparently  accepted  the 
way  of  salvation  with  the  fullest  intelligence, 
were  precisely  those  who  seemed  to  struggle  with 
least  success  against  a  temptation  to  unchastity. 
He  put  this  down  to  the  concentrated  malignity 
of  Satan,  who  directed  his  most  poisoned  darts 
against  the  fairest  of  the  flock. 

In  addition  to  these  troubles,  there  came  re- 
criminations, mutual  charges  of  drunkenness  in 
private,  all  sorts  of  petty  jealousy  and  scandal. 
There  were  frequent  definite  acts  of  " backsliding" 
on  the  part  of  members,  who  had  in  consequence 
to  be  "put  away."  No  one  of  these  cases  might 
be  in  itself  extremely  serious,  but  when  many  of 
them  came  together  they  seemed  to  indicate  that 
the  church  was  in  an  unhealthy  condition.  The 
particulars  of  many  of  these  scandals  were  con- 
cealed from  me,  but  I  was  an  adroit  little  pitcher, 
and  had  cultivated  the  art  of  seeming  to  be  inter- 
ested in  something  else,  a  book  or  a  flower,  while 
my  elders  were  talking  confidentially.  As  a  rule, 
while  I  would  fain  have  acquired  more  details, 
I  was  fairly  well-informed  about  the  errors  of  the 
Saints,  although  I  was  often  quaintly  ignorant 
of  the  real  nature  of  those  errors. 

Not  infrequently,  persons  who  had  fallen  into 
sin  repented  of  it  under  my  Father's  penetrating 

212 


FATHER   AND   SON 

ministrations.  They  were  apt  in  their  penitence 
to  use  strange  symbolic  expressions.  I  remember 
Mrs.  Pewings,  our  washerwoman,  who  had  been 
accused  of  intemperance  and  had  been  suspended 
from  communion,  reappearing  with  a  face  that 
shone  with  soap  and  sanctification,  and  saying  to 
me,  "Oh!  blessed  Child,  you're  wonderin'  to  zee 
old  Pewings  here  again,  but  He  have  rolled  away 
my  mountain!"  For  once,  I  was  absolutely  at  a 
loss,  but  she  meant  that  the  Lord  had  removed 
the  load  of  her  sins,  and  restored  her  to  a  state 
of  grace. 

It  was  in  consequence  of  these  backslidings, 
which  had  become  alarmingly  frequent,  that  early 
in  1860  my  Father  determined  on  proclaiming  a 
solemn  fast.  He  delivered  one  Sunday  what 
seemed  to  me  an  awe-inspiring  address,  calling 
upon  us  all  closely  to  examine  our  consciences, 
and  reminding  us  of  the  appalling  fate  of  the 
church  of  Laodicea.  He  said  that  it  was  not 
enough  to  have  made  a  satisfactory  confession  of 
faith,  nor  even  to  have  sealed  that  confession  in 
baptism,  if  we  did  not  live  up  to  our  protestations. 
Salvation,  he  told  us,  must  indeed  precede  holi- 
ness of  life,  yet  both  are  essential.  It  was  a  dark 
and  rainy  winter  morning  when  he  made  this 
terrible  address,  which  frightened  the  congrega- 
tion extremely.    When  the  marrow  was  congealed 

213 


FATHER   AND   SON 

within  our  bones,  and  when  the  bowed  heads  be- 
fore him,  and  the  faintly  audible  sobs  of  the  women 
in  the  background  told  him  that  his  lesson  had 
gone  home,  he  pronounced  the  keeping  of  a  day 
in  the  following  week  as  a  fast  of  contrition. 
"  Those  of  you  who  have  to  pursue  your  daily 
occupations  will  pursue  them,  but  sustained  only 
by  the  bread  of  affliction  and  by  the  water  of 
affliction." 

His  influence  over  these  gentle  peasant  people 
was  certainly  remarkable,  for  no  effort  was 
made  to  resist  his  exhortation.  It  was  his 
customary  plan  to  stay  a  little  while,  after  the 
morning  meeting  was  over,  and  in  a  very  affable 
fashion  to  shake  hands  with  the  saints.  But  on 
this  occasion  he  stalked  forth  without  a  word, 
holding  my  hand  tight  until  we  had  swept  out 
into  the  street. 

How  the  rest  of  the  congregation  kept  this  fast 
I  do  not  know.  But  it  was  a  dreadful  day  for 
us.  I  was  awakened  in  the  pitchy  night  to  go 
off  with  my  Father  to  the  Room,  where  a  scanty 
gathering  held  a  penitential  prayer-meeting.  We 
came  home,  as  dawn  was  breaking,  and  in  process 
of  time  sat  down  to  breakfast,  which  consisted — 
at  that  dismal  hour — of  slices  of  dry  bread  and  a 
tumbler  of  cold  water  each.  During  the  morning, 
I  was  not  allowed  to  paint  or  write,  or  withdraw 

214 


FATHER  AND   SON 

to  my  study  in  the  box-room.  We  sat,  in  a  state 
of  depression  not  to  be  described,  in  the  breakfast- 
room,  reading  books  of  a  devotional  character, 
with  occasional  wailing  of  some  very  doleful  hymn. 
Our  midday  dinner  came  at  last;  the  meal  was 
strictly  confined,  as  before,  to  dry  slices  of  the 
loaf  and  a  tumbler  of  water. 

The  afternoon  would  have  been  spent  as 
the  morning  was,  and  so  my  Father  spent 
it.  But  Miss  Marks,  seeing  my  white  cheeks 
and  the  dark  rings  round  my  eyes,  besought 
leave  to  take  me  out  for  a  walk.  This 
was  permitted,  with  a  pledge  that  I  should 
be  given  no  species  of  refreshment.  Although  I 
told  Miss  Marks,  in  the  course  of  the  walk,  that  I 
was  feeling  "so  leer"  (our  Devonshire  phrase  for 
hungry),  she  dared  not  break  her  word.  Our  last 
meal  was  of  the  former  character,  and  the  day 
ended  by  our  trapsing  through  the  wet  to  another 
prayer-meeting,  whence  I  returned  in  a  state 
bordering  on  collapse,  and  was  put  to  bed  without 
further  nourishment.  There  was  no  great  hard- 
ship in  all  this,  I  daresay,  but  it  was  certainly 
rigorous.  My  Father  took  pains  to  see  that  what 
he  had  said  about  the  bread  and  water  of  affliction 
was  carried  out  in  the  bosom  of  his  own  family, 
and  by  no  one  more  unflinchingly  than  by  himself. 

My  attitude  to  other  people's  souls  when  I 
215 


FATHER   AND   SON 

was  out  of  my  Father's  sight  was  now  a  constant 
anxiety  to  me.  In  our  tattling  world  of  small 
things  he  had  extraordinary  opportunities  of  learn- 
ing how  I  behaved  when  I  was  away  from  home ; 
I  did  not  realise  this,  and  I  used  to  think  his  ac- 
quaintance with  my  deeds  and  words  savoured 
almost  of  wizardry.  He  was  accustomed  to  urge 
upon  me  the  necessity  of  "speaking  for  Jesus  in 
season  and  out  of  season,"  and  he  so  worked  upon 
my  feelings  that  I  would  start  forth  like  St. 
Teresa,  wild  for  the  Moors  and  martyrdom.  But 
any  actual  impact  with  persons  marvellously 
cooled  my  zeal,  and  I  should  hardly  ever  have 
" spoken"  at  all  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  un- 
fortunate phrase  "out  of  season."  It  really 
seemed  that  one  must  talk  of  nothing  else,  since 
if  an  occasion  was  not  in  season  it  was  out  of 
season;  there  was  no  alternative,  no  close  time 
for  souls. 

My  Father  was  very  generous.  He  used  to 
magnify  any  little  effort  that  I  made,  with 
stammering  tongue,  to  sanctify  a  visit;  and  peo- 
ple, I  now  see,  were  accustomed  to  give  me  a 
friendly  lead  in  this  direction,  so  that  they  might 
please  him  by  reporting  that  I  had  "testified"  in 
the  Lord's  service.  The  whole  thing,  however, 
was  artificial,  and  was  part  of  my  Father's  restless 
inability  to  let  well  alone.    It  was  not  in  harshness 

216 


FATHER   AND   SON 

or  in  ill-nature  that  he  worried  me  so  much;  on 
the  contrary,  it  was  all  part  of  his  too-anxious 
love.  He  was  in  a  hurry  to  see  me  become  a 
shining  light,  everything  that  he  had  himself 
desired  to  be,  yet  with  none  of  his  short- 
comings. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  he  harrowed  my 
whole  soul  into  painful  agitation  by  a  phrase  that 
he  let  fall,  without,  I  believe,  attaching  any  par- 
ticular importance  to  it  at  the  time.  He  was 
occupied,  as  he  so  often  was,  in  polishing  and 
burnishing  my  faith,  and  he  was  led  to  speak  of 
the  day  when  I  should  ascend  the  pulpit  to  preach 
my  first  sermon.  "Oh!  if  I  may  be  there,  out 
of  sight,  and  hear  the  gospel  message  proclaimed 
from  your  lips,  then  I  shall  say,  'My  poor  work 
is  done.  Oh!  Lord  Jesus,  receive  my  spirit.'" 
I  cannot  express  the  dismay  which  this  aspiration 
gave  me,  the  horror  with  which  I  anticipated  such 
a  nunc  dimittis.  I  felt  like  a  small  and  solitary 
bird,  caught  and  hung  out  hopelessly  and  end- 
lessly in  a  great  glittering  cage.  The  clearness 
of  the  personal  image  affected  me  as  all  the  texts 
and  prayers  and  predictions  had  failed  to  do.  I 
saw  myself  imprisoned  forever  in  the  religious 
system  which  had  caught  me  and  would  whirl  my 
helpless  spirit  as  in  the  concentric  wheels  of  my 
nightly  vision.    I  did  not  struggle  against  it,  be- 

217 


FATHER   AND   SON 

cause  I  believed  that  it  was  inevitable,  and  that 
there  was  no  other  way  of  making  peace  with  the 
terrible  and  ever- watchful  "God  who  is  a  jealous 
God."  But  I  looked  forward  to  my  fate  without 
zeal  and  without  exhilaration,  and  the  fear  of  the 
Lord  altogether  swallowed  up  and  cancelled  any 
notion  of  the  love  of  Him. 

I  should  do  myself  an  injustice,  however,  if  I 
described  my  attitude  to  faith  at  this  time  as 
wanting  in  candour.  I  did  very  earnestly  desire 
to  follow  where  my  Father  led.  That  passion  for 
imitation,  which  I  have  already  discussed,  was 
strongly  developed  at  this  time,  and  it  induced 
me  to  repeat  the  language  of  pious  books  in  godly 
ejaculations  which  greatly  edified  my  grown-up 
companions,  and  were,  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  per- 
fectly sincere.  I  wished  extremely  to  be  good 
and  holy,  and  I  had  no  doubt  in  my  mind  of  the 
absolute  infallibility  of  my  Father  as  a  guide  in 
heavenly  things.  But  I  am  perfectly  sure  that 
there  never  was  a  moment  in  which  my  heart  truly 
responded,  with  native  ardour,  to  the  words  which 
flowed  so  readily,  in  such  a  stream  of  unction, 
from  my  anointed  lips.  I  cannot  recall  anything 
but  an  intellectual  surrender;  there  was  never 
joy  in  the  act  of  resignation,  never  the  mystic's 
rapture  at  feeling  his  phantom  self,  his  own 
threadbare  soul,  suffused,  thrilled  through,  robed 

218 


FATHER   AND   SON 

again  in  glory  by  a  fire  which  burns  up  everything 
personal  and  individual  about  him. 

Through  thick  and  thin  I  clung  to  a  hard  nut  of 
individuality,  deep  down  in  my  childish  nature. 
To  the  pressure  from  without,  I  resigned  every- 
thing else,  my  thoughts,  my  words,  my  anticipa- 
tions, my  assurances,  but  there  was  something 
which  I  never  resigned,  my  innate  and  persistent 
self.  Meek  as  I  seemed,  and  gently  respondent, 
I  was  always  conscious  of  that  innermost  quality 
which  I  had  learned  to  recognise  in  my  earlier 
days  in  Islington,  that  existence  of  two  in  the 
depths  who  could  speak  to  one  another  in  invio- 
lable secrecy. 

"This  a  natural  man  may  discourse  of,  and 
that  very  knowingly,  and  give  a  kind  of  natural 
credit  to  it,  as  to  a  history  that  may  be  true ;  but 
firmly  to  believe  that  there  is  divine  truth  in 
all  these  things,  and  to  have  a  persuasion  of  it 
stronger  than  of  the  very  thing  we  see  with  our 
eyes;  such  an  assent  as  this  is  the  peculiar  work 
of  the  Spirit  of  God,  and  is  certainly  saving  faith." 
This  passage  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  writings  of 
any  extravagant  Plymouth  Brother,  but  in  one 
of  the  most  solid  classics  of  the  Church,  in  Arch- 
bishop Leighton's  "Commentary  on  the  First 
Epistle  of  Peter."  I  quote  it  because  it  defines, 
more  exactly  than  words  of  my  own  could  hope 

219 


FATHER   AND   SON 

to  do,  the  difference  which  already  existed,  and 
in  secrecy  began  forthwith  to  be  more  and  more 
acutely  accentuated,  between  my  Father  and 
myself.  He  did  indeed  possess  this  saving  faith, 
which  could  move  mountains  of  evidence,  and 
suffer  no  diminution  under  the  action  of  failure 
or  disappointment.  I,  on  the  other  hand — as  I 
began  to  feel  dimly  then,  and  see  luminously  now 
— had  only  acquired  the  habit  of  giving  what 
the  Archbishop  means  by  "a  kind  of  natural 
credit"  to  the  doctrine  so  persistently  impressed 
upon  my  conscience,  as  could  not  but  be  molten 
in  the  dews  and  exhaled  in  the  sunshine  of  life 
and  thought  and  experience. 

My  Father,  by  an  indulgent  act  for  the  caprice 
of  which  I  cannot  wholly  account,  presently  let 
in  a  flood  of  imaginative  light  which  was  certainly 
hostile  to  my  heavenly  calling.  My  instinctive 
interest  in  geography  has  already  been  mentioned. 
This  was  the  one  branch  of  knowledge  in  which 
I  needed  no  instruction,  geographical  information 
seeming  to  soak  into  the  cells  of  my  brain  without 
an  effort.  At  the  age  of  eleven,  I  knew  a  great 
deal  more  of  maps,  and  of  the  mutual  relation 
of  localities  all  over  the  globe,  than  most  grown- 
up people  do.  It  was  almost  a  mechanical  ac- 
quirement. I  was  now  greatly  taken  with  the 
geography  of  the  West  Indies,  of  every  part  of 

220 


FATHER   AND   SON 

which  I  had  made  MS.  maps.  There  was  some- 
thing powerfully  attractive  to  my  fancy  in  the 
great  chain  of  the  Antilles,  lying  on  the  sea  like  an 
open  bracelet,  with  its  big  jewels  and  little  jewels 
strung  on  an  invisible  thread.  I  liked  to  shut  my 
eyes  and  see  it  all,  in  a  mental  panorama,  stretched 
from  Cape  Sant'  Antonio  to  the  Serpent's  Mouth. 
Several  of  these  lovely  islands,  these  emeralds  and 
amethysts  set  on  the  Caribbean  Sea,  my  Father 
had  known  well  in  his  youth,  and  I  was  importu- 
nate in  questioning  him  about  them.  One  day 
as  I  multiplied  inquiries,  he  rose,  as  I  did  so,  in 
his  impetuous  way,  and  climbing  to  the  top  of  a 
bookcase,  brought  down  a  thick  volume  and  pre- 
sented it  to  me.  "You'll  find  all  about  the 
Antilles  there,"  he  said,  and  left  me  with  "Tom 
Cringle's  Log"  in  my  possession. 

The  embargo  laid  upon  every  species  of  fiction 
by  my  Mother's  powerful  scruple  had  never  been 
raised,  although  she  had  been  dead  four  years. 
As  I  have  said  in  an  earlier  chapter,  this  was  a 
point  on  which  I  believe  that  my  Father  had 
never  entirely  agreed  with  her.  He  had,  how- 
ever, yielded  to  her  prejudice,  and  no  work  of 
romance,  no  fictitious  story,  had  ever  come  in  my 
way.  It  is  remarkable  that  among  our  books, 
which  amounted  to  many  hundreds,  I  had  never 
discovered   a  single   work   of  fiction   until   my 

221 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Father  himself  revealed  the  existence  of  Michael 
Scott's  wild  masterpiece.  So  little  did  I  under- 
stand what  was  allowable  in  the  way  of  literary 
invention,  that  I  began  the  story  without  a  doubt 
that  it  was  true,  and  I  think  it  was  my  Father 
himself  who,  in  answer  to  an  inquiry,  explained 
to  me  that  it  was  "all  made  up."  He  advised  me 
to  read  the  description  of  the  sea,  and  of  the 
mountains  of  Jamaica,  and  "skip"  the  pages 
which  gave  imaginary  adventures  and  conversa- 
tions. But  I  did  not  take  his  counsel;  these 
latter  were  the  flower  of  the  book  to  me.  I  had 
never  read,  never  dreamed  of  anything  like  them, 
and  they  filled  my  whole  horizon  with  glory  and 
with  joy. 

I  suppose  that  when  my  Father  was  a  younger 
man,  and  less  pietistic,  he  had  read  "Tom  Crin- 
gle's Log"  with  pleasure,  because  it  recalled 
familiar  scenes  to  him.  Much  was  explained  by 
the  fact  that  the  frontispiece  of  this  edition  was 
a  delicate  line-engraving  of  Blewfields,  the  great 
lonely  house  in  a  garden  of  Jamaican  allspice 
where  for  eighteen  months  he  had  lived  as  a 
naturalist.  He  could  not  look  at  this  print  with- 
out recalling  exquisite  memories  and  airs  that 
blew  from  a  terrestrial  paradise.  But  Michael 
Scott's  noisy  amorous  novel  of  adventure  was  an 
extraordinary  book  to  put  in  the  hands  of  a  child 

222 


FATHER   AND   SON 

who  had  never  been  allowed  to  glance  at  the 
mildest  and  most  febrifugal  story-book. 

It  was  like  giving  a  glass  of  brandy  neat  to  some 
one  who  had  never  been  weaned  from  a  milk  diet. 
I  have  not  read  "Tom  Cringle's  Log"  from  that 
day  to  this,  and  I  think  that  I  should  be  unwilling 
now  to  break  the  charm  of  memory,  which  may 
be  largely  illusion.  But  I  remember  a  great  deal 
of  the  plot  and  not  a  little  of  the  language,  and, 
while  I  am  sure  it  is  enchantingly  spirited,  I  am 
quite  as  sure  that  the  persons  it  describes  were  far 
from  being  unspotted  by  the  world.  The  scenes 
at  night  in  the  streets  of  Spanish  Town  surpassed 
not  merely  my  experience,  but,  thank  goodness, 
my  imagination.  The  nautical  personages  used 
in  their  conversations  what  is  called  "a  class  of 
language,"  and  there  ran,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
a  glow  and  gust  of  life  through  the  romance 
from  beginning  to  end  which  was  nothing  if  it 
was  not  resolutely  pagan. 

There  were  certain  scenes  and  images  in  "Tom 
Cringle's  Log"  which  made  not  merely  a  lasting 
impression  upon  my  mind,  but  tinged  my  out- 
look upon  life.  The  long  adventures,  fightings 
and  escapes,  sudden  storms  without,  and  mutinies 
within,  drawn  forth  as  they  were,  surely  with  great 
skill,  upon  the  fiery  blue  of  the  boundless  tropical 
ocean,  produced  on  my  inner  mind  a  sort  of  glim- 

223 


FATHER   AND   SON 

mering  hope,  very  vaguely  felt  at  first,  slowly 
developing,  long  stationary  and  faint,  but  always 
tending  towards  a  belief  that  I  should  escape  at 
last  from  the  narrowness  of  the  life  we  led  at 
home,  from  this  bondage  to  the  Law  and  the 
Prophets. 

I  must  not  define  too  clearly,  or  endeavour 
too  formally  to  insist  on  the  blind  movements 
of  a  childish  mind.  But  of  this  I  am  quite 
sure,  that  the  reading  and  re-reading  of  "Tom 
Cringle's  Log"  did  more  than  anything  else,  in 
this  critical  eleventh  year  of  my  fife,  to  give 
fortitude  to  my  individuality,  which  was  in  great 
danger — as  I  now  see — of  succumbing  to  the  press- 
ure my  Father  brought  to  bear  upon  it  from  all 
sides.  My  soul  was  shut  up,  like  Fatima,  in  a 
tower  to  which  no  external  influences  could  come, 
and  it  might  really  have  been  starved  to  death, 
or  have  lost  the  power  of  recovery  and  rebound, 
if  my  captor,  by  some  freak  not  yet  perfectly 
accounted  for,  had  not  gratuitously  opened  a 
little  window  in  it  and  added  a  powerful  telescope. 
The  daring  chapters  of  Michael  Scott's  picaresque 
romance  of  the  tropics  were  that  telescope  and 
that  window. 

In  the  spring  of  this  year,  I  began  to  walk  about 
the  village  and  even  proceed  for  considerable 
distances  into  the  country  by  myself,  and  after 

224 


FATHER   AND   SON 

reading  "Tom  Cringle's  Log"  those  expeditions 
were  accompanied  by  a  constant  hope  of  meeting 
with  some  adventures.  I  did  not  court  events, 
however,  except  in  fancy,  for  I  was  very  shy  of 
real  people,  and  would  break  off  some  gallant 
dream  of  prowess  on  the  high  seas  to  bolt  into  a 
field  and  hide  behind  the  hedge,  while  a  couple 
of  labouring  men  went  by.  Sometimes,  however, 
the  wave  of  a  great  purpose  would  bear  me  on, 
as  when  once,  but  certainly  at  an  earlier  date 
than  I  have  now  reached,  hearing  the  dangers  of 
a  persistent  drought  much  dwelt  upon,  I  carried 
my  small  red  watering-pot,  full  of  water,  up  to 
the  top  of  the  village,  and  then  all  the  way  down 
Petit-tor  Lane,  and  discharged  its  contents  in 
a  cornfield,  hoping  by  this  act  to  improve  the 
prospects  of  the  harvest.  A  more  eventful  ex- 
cursion must  be  described,  because  of  the  moral 
impression  it  left  indelibly  upon  me. 

I  have  described  the  sequestered  and  beautiful 
hamlet  of  Barton,  to  which  I  was  so  often  taken 
visiting  by  Mary  Grace  Burmington.  At  Barton 
there  lived  a  couple  who  were  objects  of  peculiar 
interest  to  me,  because  of  the  rather  odd  fact 
that  having  come,  out  of  pure  curiosity,  to  see 
me  baptized,  they  had  been  then  and  there  deeply 
convinced  of  their  spiritual  danger.  These  were 
John  Brooks,  an  Irish  quarryman,  and  his  wife, 

225 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Ann  Brooks.  These  people  had  not  merely  been 
hitherto  unconverted,  but  they  had  openly  treated 
the  Brethren  with  anger  and  contempt.  They 
came,  indeed,  to  my  baptism  to  mock,  but  they 
went  away  impressed. 

Next  morning,  when  Mrs.  Brooks  was  at  the 
wash-tub,  as  she  told  us,  Hell  opened  at  her 
feet,  and  the  Devil  came  out  holding  a  long 
scroll  on  which  the  list  of  her  sins  was  written. 
She  was  so  much  excited,  that  the  emotion  brought 
about  a  miscarriage  and  she  was  seriously  ill. 
Meanwhile,  her  husband,  who  had  been  equally 
moved  at  the  baptism,  was  also  converted,  and  as 
soon  as  she  was  well  enough,  they  were  baptized 
together,  and  then  "broke  bread"  with  us.  The 
case  of  the  Brookses  was  much  talked  about, 
and  was  attributed,  in  a  distant  sense,  to  me; 
that  is  to  say,  if  I  had  not  been  an  object  of  public 
curiosity,  the  Brookses  might  have  remained  in 
the  bond  of  iniquity.  I,  therefore,  took  a  very 
particular  interest  in  them,  and  as  I  presently 
heard  that  they  were  extremely  poor,  I  was  filled 
with  a  fervent  longing  to  minister  to  their  neces- 
sities. 

Somebody  had  lately  given  me  a  present  of 
money,  and  I  begged  little  sums  here  and  there 
until  I  reached  the  very  considerable  figure  of 
seven  shillings  and  sixpence.    With  these  coins 

226 


FATHER   AND   SON 

safe  in  a  little  linen  bag,  I  started  one  Sunday 
afternoon,  without  saying  anything  to  any  one, 
and  I  arrived  at  the  Brookses'  cottage  in  Barton. 
John  Brooks  was  a  heavy  dirty  man,  with  a 
pock-marked  face  and  two  left  legs;  his  broad 
and  red  face  carried  small  side-whiskers  in  the 
manner  of  that  day,  but  was  otherwise  shaved. 
When  I  reached  the  cottage,  husband  and  wife 
were  at  home,  doing  nothing  at  all  in  the  approved 
Sunday  style.  I  was  received  by  them  with  some 
surprise,  but  I  quickly  explained  my  mission,  and 
produced  my  linen  bag.  To  my  disgust,  all  John 
Brooks  said  was,  "I  know'd  the  Lord  would  pro- 
vide," and  after  emptying  my  little  bag  into  the 
palm  of  an  enormous  hand,  he  swept  the  contents 
into  his  trousers  pocket,  and  slapped  his  leg. 
He  said  not  one  single  word  of  thanks  or  ap- 
preciation, and  I  was  absolutely  cut  to  the 
heart. 

I  think  that  in  the  course  of  a  long  life  I  have 
never  experienced  a  bitterer  disappointment.  The 
woman,  who  was  quicker,  and  more  sensitive, 
doubtless  saw  my  embarrassment,  but  the  form 
of  comfort  which  she  chose  was  even  more  wound- 
ing to  my  pride.  "Never  mind,  little  master," 
she  said,  "you  shall  come  and  see  me  feed  the 
pigs."  But  there  is  a  limit  to  endurance,  and 
with  a  sense  of  having  been  cruelly  torn  by  the 

227 


FATHER   AND   SON 

tooth  of  ingratitude,  I  fled  from  the  threshold  of 
the  Brookses,  never  to  return. 

At  tea  that  afternoon,  I  was  very  much  down- 
cast, and,  under  cross-examination  from  Miss 
Marks,  all  my  little  story  came  out.  My  Father, 
who  had  been  floating  away  in  a  meditation,  as 
he  very  often  did,  caught  a  word  that  interested 
him  and  descended  to  consciousness.  I  had  to 
tell  my  tale  over  again,  this  time  very  sadly,  and 
with  a  fear  that  I  should  be  reprimanded.  But 
on  the  contrary,  both  my  Father  and  Miss  Marks 
were  attentive  and  most  sympathetic,  and  I  was 
much  comforted.  "We  must  remember  they  are 
the  Lord's  children,"  said  my  Father.  "Even 
the  Lord  can't  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's 
ear,"  said  Miss  Marks,  who  was  considerably  ruf- 
fled. "Alas!  alas!"  replied  my  Father,  waving 
his  hand  with  a  deprecating  gesture.  "The  dear 
child!"  said  Miss  Marks,  bristling  with  indigna- 
tion, and  patting  my  hand  across  the  tea-table. 
"The  Lord  will  reward  your  zealous  loving  care 
of  his  poor,  even  if  they  have  neither  the  grace 
nor  the  knowledge  to  thank  you,"  said  my  Father, 
and  rested  his  brown  eyes  meltingly  upon  me. 
"Brutes!"  said  Miss  Marks,  thinking  of  John  and 
Mary  Brooks.  "Oh  no!  no!"  replied  my  Father, 
"but  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water!  We 
must  bear  with  the  limited  intelligence."    All 

228 


FATHER   AND   SON 

this  was  an  emollient  to  my  wounds,  and  I  be- 
came consoled.  But  the  springs  of  benevolence 
were  dried  up  within  me,  and  to  this  day  I  have 
never  entirely  recovered  from  the  shock  of  John 
Brooks's  coarse  leer  and  his  "I  know'd  the  Lord 
would  provide . ' '  The  infant  plant  of  philanthropy 
was  burned  in  my  bosom  as  if  by  quick-lime. 

In  the  course  of  the  summer,  a  young  school- 
master called  on  my  Father  to  announce  to  him 
that  he  had  just  opened  a  day-school  for  the  sons 
of  gentlemen  in  our  vicinity,  and  he  begged  for 
the  favour  of  a  visit.  My  Father  returned  his 
call;  he  lived  in  one  of  the  small  white  villas, 
buried  in  laurels,  which  gave  a  discreet  anima- 
tion to  our  neighbourhood.  Mr.  M.  was  frank 
and  modest,  deferential  to  my  Father's  opinions 
and  yet  capable  of  defending  his  own.  His 
school  and  he  produced  an  excellent  impression, 
and  in  August  I  began  to  be  one  of  his  pupils. 
The  school  was  very  informal;  it  was  held  in 
the  two  principal  dwelling-rooms  on  the  ground- 
floor  of  the  villa,  and  I  do  not  remember  that  Mr. 
M.  had  any  help  from  an  usher. 

There  were  perhaps  twenty  boys  in  the  school 
at  most,  and  often  fewer.  I  made  the  excursion 
between  home  and  school  four  times  a  day;  if  I 
walked  fast,  the  transit  might  take  five  minutes, 
and,  as  there  were  several  objects  of  interest  in  the 

229 


FATHER   AND   SON 

way,  it  might  be  spread  over  an  hour.  In  fine 
weather  the  going  to  and  from  school  was  very 
delightful,  and  small  as  the  scope  of  it  was,  it 
could  be  varied  almost  indefinitely.  I  would 
sometimes  meet  with  a  schoolfellow^  proceeding 
in  the  same  direction,  and  my  Father,  observing 
us  over  the  wall  one  morning,  was  amused  to 
notice  that  I  always  progressed  by  dancing  along 
the  curbstone  sideways,  my  face  turned  inwards 
and  my  arms  beating  against  my  legs,  conversing 
loudly  all  the  time.  This  was  a  case  of  pure 
heredity,  for  so  he  used  to  go  to  his  school,  forty 
years  before,  along  the  streets  of  Poole. 

One  day  when  fortunately  I  was  alone,  I  was 
accosted  by  an  old  gentleman,  dressed  as  a 
dissenting  minister.  He  was  pleased  with  my 
replies,  and  he  presently  made  it  a  habit  to  be  tak- 
ing his  constitutional  when  I  was  likely  to  be  on 
the  high  road.  We  became  great  friends,  and  he 
took  me  at  last  to  his  house,  a  very  modest  place, 
where  to  my  great  amazement,  there  hung  in  the 
dining-room,  two  large  portraits,  one  of  a  man, 
the  other  of  a  woman,  in  extravagant  fancy-dress. 
My  old  friend  told  me  that  the  former  was  a  picture 
of  himself  as  he  had  appeared,  "long  ago,  in  my 
unconverted  days,  on  the  stage." 

I  was  so  ignorant  as  not  to  have  the  slightest 
conception  of  what  was  meant  by  the  stage,  and  he 

230 


FATHER   AND   SON 

explained  to  me  that  he  had  been  an  actor  and  a 
poet,  before  the  Lord  had  opened  his  eyes  to  better 
things.  I  knew  nothing  about  actors,  but  poets 
were  already  the  objects  of  my  veneration.  My 
friend  was  the  first  poet  I  had  ever  seen.  He  was 
no  less  a  person  than  James  Sheridan  Knowles, 
the  famous  author  of  Virginius  and  The  Hunch- 
back, who  had  become  a  Baptist  minister  in  his 
old  age.  When,  at  home,  I  mentioned  this  ac- 
quaintance, it  awakened  no  interest.  I  believe 
that  my  Father  had  never  heard,  or  never  noticed 
the  name  of  one  who  had  been  by  far  the  most 
eminent  English  playwright  of  that  age. 

It  was  from  Sheridan  Knowles'  lips  that  I 
first  heard  fall  the  name  of  Shakespeare.  He 
was  surprised,  I  fancy,  to  find  me  so  curiously 
advanced  in  some  branches  of  knowledge,  and 
so  utterly  ignorant  of  others.  He  could  hardly 
credit  that  the  names  of  Hamlet  and  Falstaff 
and  Prospero  meant  nothing  to  a  little  boy  who 
knew  so  much  theology  and  geography  as  I  did. 
Mr.  Knowles  suggested  that  I  should  ask  my 
schoolmaster  to  read  some  of  the  plays  of  Shake- 
speare with  the  boys,  and  he  proposed  The 
Merchant  of  Venice  as  particularly  well-suited  for 
this  purpose.  I  repeated  what  my  aged  friend 
(Mr.  Sheridan  Knowles  must  have  been  nearly 
eighty  at  that  time)  had  said,  and  Mr.  M.  accepted 

231 


FATHER   AND   SON 

the  idea  with  promptitude.  (All  my  memories 
of  this  my  earliest  schoolmaster  present  him  to 
me  as  intelligent,  amiable  and  quick,  although  I 
think  not  very  soundly  prepared  for  his  profes- 
sion.) 

Accordingly,  it  was  announced  that  the  read- 
ing of  Shakespeare  would  be  one  of  our  les- 
sons, and  on  the  following  afternoon  we  began 
The  Merchant  of  Venice.  There  was  one  large 
volume,  and  it  was  handed  about  the  class ;  I  was 
permitted  to  read  the  part  of  Bassanio,  and  I 
set  forth,  with  ecstatic  pipe,  how 

In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left; 

And  she  is  fair,  and  fairer  than  that  word! 

Mr.  M.  must  have  had  some  fondness  for  the 
stage  himself;  his  pleasure  in  the  Shakespeare 
scenes  was  obvious,  and  nothing  else  that  he 
taught  me  made  so  much  impression  on  me  as 
what  he  said  about  a  proper  emphasis  in  reading 
aloud.  I  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight, 
but  alas!  we  had  only  reached  the  second  act  of 
the  play,  when  the  readings  mysteriously  stopped. 
I  never  knew  the  cause,  but  I  suspect  that  it 
was  at  my  Father's  desire.  He  prided  himself  on 
never  having  read  a  page  of  Shakespeare,  and 
on  never  having  entered  a  theatre  but  once.  I 
think  I  must  have  spoken  at  home  about  the 

232 


FATHER   AND   SON 

readings,  and  that  he  must  have  given  the  school- 
master a  hint  to  return  to  the  ordinary  school 
curriculum. 

The  fact  that  I  was  "a  believer,"  as  it  was  our 
custom  to  call  one  who  had  been  admitted  to 
the  arcana  of  our  religion,  and  that  therefore,  in 
all  commerce  with  "unbelievers,"  it  was  my  duty 
to  be  "  testifying  for  my  Lord,  in  season  and  out 
of  season," — this  prevented  my  forming  any 
intimate  friendships  at  my  first  school.  I  shrank 
from  the  toilsome  and  embarrassing  act  of  button- 
holing a  school-fellow  as  he  rushed  out  of  class, 
and  of  pressing  upon  him  the  probably  unintelligi- 
ble question  "Have  you  found  Jesus?"  It  was 
simpler  to  avoid  him,  to  slip  like  a  lizard  through 
the  laurels  and  emerge  into  solitude. 

The  boys  had  a  way  of  plunging  out  into  the 
road  in  front  of  the  school-villa  when  afternoon 
school  was  over;  it  was  a  pleasant  rural  road 
lined  with  high  hedges  and  shadowed  by  elm-trees. 
Here,  especially  towards  the  summer  twilight,  they 
used  to  linger  and  play  vague  games,  swooping 
and  whirling  in  the  declining  sunshine,  and  I 
used  to  join  these  bat-like  sports.  But  my  com- 
pany, though  not  avoided,  was  not  greatly  sought 
for.  I  think  that  something  of  my  curious 
history  was  known,  and  that  I  was,  not  unkindly, 
but  instinctively,   avoided,  as  an  animal  of  a 

233 


FATHER   AND   SON 

different  species,  not  allied  to  the  herd.  The 
conventionality  of  little  boys  is  constant;  the 
colour  of  their  traditions  is  uniform.  At  the 
same  time,  although  I  made  no  friends,  I  found 
no  enemies.  In  class,  except  in  my  extraordinary 
aptitude  for  geography,  which  was  looked  upon 
as  incomprehensible  and  almost  uncanny,  I  was 
rather  behind  than  in  front  of  the  others.  I, 
therefore,  awakened  no  jealousies,  and,  intent 
on  my  own  dreams,  I  think  my  little  shadowy 
presence  escaped  the  notice  of  most  of  my  school- 
fellows. 

By  the  side  of  the  road  I  have  mentioned,  be- 
tween the  school  and  my  home,  there  was  a  large 
horse-pond.  The  hedge  folded  round  three  sides 
of  it,  while  ancient  pollard  elms  bent  over  it,  and 
chequered  with  their  foliage  in  it  the  reflection 
of  the  sky.  The  roadside  edge  of  this  pond  was 
my  favourite  station;  it  consisted  of  a  hard  clay 
which  could  be  moulded  into  fairly  tenacious 
forms.  Here  I  created  a  maritime  empire — 
islands,  a  seaboard  with  harbours,  lighthouses, 
fortifications.  My  geographical  imitativeness  had 
its  full  swing.  Sometimes,  while  I  was  creating, 
a  cart  would  be  driven  roughly  into  the  pond, 
and  a  horse  would  drink  deep  of  my  ocean,  his 
hooves  trampling  my  archipelagoes  and  shattering 
my  ports  with  what  was  worse  than  a  typhoon. 

234 


FATHER   AND   SON 

But  I  immediately  set  to  work,  as  soon  as  the 
cart  was  gone  and  the  mud  had  settled,  to  tidy- 
up  my  coast-line  again  and  to  scoop  out  anew 
my  harbours. 

My  pleasure  in  this  sport  was  endless,  and 
what  I  was  able  to  see,  in  my  mind's  eye,  was 
.not  the  edge  of  a  morass  of  mud,  but  a  splen- 
did line  of  coast,  and  gulfs  of  the  type  of 
Tor  Bay.  I  do  not  recollect  a  sharper  double 
humiliation  than  when  old  Sam  Lamble,  the 
blacksmith,  who  was  one  of  the  "saints,"  being 
asked  by  my  Father  whether  he  had  met  me, 
replied  "Yes,  I  zeed  'un  up-long,  making  mud 
pies  in  the  ro-ad!"  What  a  position  for  one  who 
had  been  received  into  communion  "as  an  adult!" 
What  a  blot  on  the  scutcheon  of  a  would-be 
Columbus!    "Mud-pies,"  indeed! 

Yet  I  had  an  appreciator.  One  afternoon,  as 
I  was  busy  on  my  geographical  operations,  a 
good-looking  middle-aged  lady,  with  a  soft  pink 
cheek  and  a  sparkling  hazel  eye,  paused  and  asked 
me  if  my  name  was  not  what  it  was.  I  had  seen 
her  before;  a  stranger  to  our  parts,  with  a  voice 
without  a  trace  in  it  of  the  Devonshire  drawl. 
I  knew,  dimly,  that  she  came  sometimes  to  the 
meeting,  that  she  was  lodging  at  Upton  with 
some  friends  of  ours  who  accepted  paying  guests 
in  an  old  house  that  was  simply  a  basket  of  roses. 

235 


FATHER   AND   SON 

She  was  Miss  Brightwen,  and  I  now  conversed 
with  her  for  the  first  time. 

Her  interest  in  my  harbours  and  islands  was 
marked;  she  did  not  smile;  she  asked  questions 
about  my  peninsulas  which  were  intelligent  and 
pertinent.  I  was  even  persuaded  at  last  to  leave 
my  creations  and  to  walk  with  her  towards  the 
village.  I  was  pleased  with  her  voice,  her  refine- 
ment, her  dress,  which  was  more  delicate,  and 
her  manners,  which  were  more  easy,  than  what  I 
was  accustomed  to.  We  had  some  very  pleasant 
conversation,  and  when  we  parted  I  had  the  sat- 
isfaction of  feeling  that  our  intercourse  had  been 
both  agreeable  to  me  and  instructive  to  her.  I 
told  her  that  I  should  be  glad  to  tell  her  more 
on  a  future  occasion;  she  thanked  me  very 
gravely,  and  then  she  laughed  a  little.  I  con- 
fess I  did  not  see  that  there  was  anything  to 
laugh  at.  We  parted  on  warm  terms  of  mutual 
esteem,  but  I  little  thought  that  this  sympathetic 
Quakerish  lady  was  to  become  my  stepmother. 


236 


CHAPTER  X 

I  slept  in  a  little  bed  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
and  my  Father  in  the  ancestral  four-poster  nearer 
to  the  door.  Very  early  one  bright  September 
morning  at  the  close  of  my  eleventh  year,  my 
Father  called  me  over  to  him.  I  climbed  up,  and 
was  snugly  wrapped  in  the  coverlid;  and  then 
we  held  a  momentous  conversation. "  It  began 
abruptly  by  his  asking  me  whether  I  should  like 
to  have  a  new  mamma.  I  was  never  a  senti- 
mentalist, and  I  therefore  answered,  cannily,  that 
that  would  depend  on  who  she  was.  He  parried 
this,  and  announced  that,  any  way,  a  new  mamma 
was  coming;  I  was  sure  to  like  her.  Still  in  a 
non-committal  mood,  I  asked:  "Will  she  go  with 
me  to  the  back  of  the  lime-kiln?"  This  question 
caused  my  Father  a  great  bewilderment.  I  had 
to  explain  that  the  ambition  of  my  life  was  to 
go  up  behind  the  lime-kiln  on  the  top  of  the  hill 
that  hung  over  Barton,  a  spot  which  was  for- 
bidden ground,  being  locally  held  one  of  extreme 

237 


FATHER   AND   SON 

danger.  "Oh!  I  daresay  she  will,"  my  Father 
then  said,  "but  you  must  guess  who  she  is."  I 
guessed  one  or  two  of  the  less  comely  of  the 
female  "saints,"  and,  this  embarrassing  my 
Father,  since  the  second  I  mentioned  was  a  mar- 
ried woman  who  kept  a  sweet-shop  in  the  village, 
he  cut  my  inquiries  short  by  saying,  "It  is  Miss 
Brightwen." 

So  far  so  good,  and  I  was  well  pleased.  But 
unfortunately  I  remembered  that  it  was  my  duty 
to  testify  "in  season  and  out  of  season."  I  there- 
fore asked,  with  much  earnestness,  "But,  Papa, 
is  she  one  of  the  Lord's  children?"  He  replied, 
with  gravity,  that  she  was.  "Has  she  taken  up 
her  cross  in  baptism?"  I  went  on,  for  this  was 
my  own  strong  point  as  a  believer.  My  Father 
looked  a  little  shame-faced,  and  replied:  "Well, 
she  has  not  as  yet  seen  the  necessity  of  that,  but 
we  must  pray  that  the  Lord  may  make  her  way 
clear  before  her.  You  see,  she  has  been  brought 
up,  hitherto,  in  the  so-called  Church  of  England." 

Our  positions  were  now  curiously  changed.  It 
seemed  as  if  it  were  I  who  was  the  jealous  monitor, 
and  my  Father  the  deprecating  penitent.  I  sat 
up  in  the  coverlid,  and  I  shook  a  finger  at  him. 
"Papa,"  I  said,  "don't  tell  me  that  she's  a  pedo- 
baptist?"  I  had  lately  acquired  that  valuable 
word,  and  I  seized  this  remarkable  opportunity 

238 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  using  it.  It  affected  my  Father  painfully,  but 
he  repeated  his  assurance  that  if  we  united  our 
prayers,  and  set  the  Scripture  plan  plainly  before 
Miss  Brightwen,  there  could  be  no  doubt  that 
she  would  see  her  way  to  accepting  the  doctrine 
of  adult  baptism.  And  he  said  we  must  judge 
not,  lest  we  ourselves  be  judged.  I  had  just 
enough  tact  to  let  that  pass,  but  I  was  quite 
aware  that  our  whole  system  was  one  of  judging, 
and  that  we  had  no  intention  whatever  of  being 
judged  ourselves.  Yet  even  at  the  age  of  eleven 
one  sees  that  on  certain  occasions  to  press  home 
the  truth  is  not  convenient. 

Just  before  Christmas,  on  a  piercing  night  of 
frost,  my  Father  brought  to  us  his  bride.  The 
smartening  up  of  the  house,  the  new  furniture, 
the  removal  of  my  own  possessions  to  a  private 
bed-room,  the  wedding  gifts  of  the  "saints,"  all 
these  things  paled  in  interest  before  the  fact  that 
Miss  Marks  had  made  a  "  scene,"  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon.  I  was  dancing  about  the 
drawing-room,  and  was  saying:  "Oh!  I  am  so 
glad  my  new  Mamma  is  coming,"  when  Miss 
Marks  called  out,  in  an  unnatural  voice,  "Oh! 
you  cruel  child."  I  stopped  in  amazement  and 
stared  at  her,  whereupon  she  threw  prudence  to 
the  winds,  and  moaned:  "I  once  thought  I  should 
be  your  dear  mamma."    I  was  simply  stupefied, 

239 


FATHER   AND   SON 

and  I  expressed  my  horror  in  terms  that  were 
clear  and  strong.  Thereupon  Miss  Marks  had 
a  wild  fit  of  hysterics,  while  I  looked  on,  wholly 
unsympathetic  and  still  deeply  affronted.  She 
was  right;  I  was  cruel,  alas!  but  then,  what  a 
silly  woman  she  had  been!  The  consequence  was 
that  she  withdrew  in  a  moist  and  quivering  con- 
dition to  her  boudoir,  where  she  had  locked  her- 
self in  when  I,  all  smiles  and  caresses,  was  wel- 
coming the  bride  and  bridegroom  on  the  doorstep 
as  politely  as  if  I  had  been  a  valued  old  family 
retainer. 

My  step-mother  immediately  became  a  great 
ally  of  mine.  She  was  never  a  tower  of  strength 
to  me,  but  at  least  she  was  always  a  lodge  in  my 
garden  of  cucumbers.  She  was  a  very  well- 
meaning  pious  lady,  but  she  was  not  a  fanatic, 
and  her  mind  did  not  naturally  revel  in  spiritual 
aspirations.  Almost  her  only  social  fault  was 
that  she  was  sometimes  a  little  fretful;  this  was 
the  way  in  which  her  bruised  individuality  asserted 
itself.  But  she  was  affectionate,  serene,  and 
above  all  refined.  Her  refinement  was  extraordi- 
narily pleasant  to  my  nerves,  on  which  much 
else  in  our  surroundings  jarred. 

How  life  may  have  jarred,  poor  insulated  lady, 
on  her  during  her  first  experience  of  our  life  at 
the  Room,  I  know  not,  but  I  think  she  was  a 

240 


FATHER  AND  SON 

philosopher.  She  had,  with  surprising  rashness, 
and  in  opposition  to  the  wishes  of  every  member 
of  her  own  family,  taken  her  cake,  and  now  she 
recognised  that  she  must  eat  it,  to  the  last  crumb. 
Over  her  wishes  and  prejudices  my  Father  exer- 
cised a  constant,  cheerful  and  quiet  pressure.  He 
was  never  unkind  or  abrupt,  but  he  went  on 
adding  avoirdupois  until  her  will  gave  way  under 
the  sheer  weight.  Even  to  public  immersion, 
which,  as  was  natural  in  a  shy  and  sensitive  lady 
of  advancing  years,  she  regarded  with  a  horror 
which  was  long  insurmountable, — even  to  baptism 
she  yielded,  and  my  Father  had  the  joy  to  an- 
nounce to  the  Saints  one  Sunday  morning  at  the 
breaking  of  bread  that  "my  beloved  wife  has  been 
able  at  length  to  see  the  Lord's  Will  in  the  matter 
of  baptism,  and  will  testify  to  the  faith  which  is 
in  her  on  Thursday  evening  next."  No  wonder 
my  step-mother  was  sometimes  fretful. 

On  the  physical  side,  I  owe  her  an  endless 
debt  of  gratitude.  Her  relations,  who  objected 
strongly  to  her  marriage,  had  told  her,  among 
other  pleasant  prophecies,  that  "the  first  thing 
you  will  have  to  do  will  be  to  bury  that  poor 
child."  Under  the  old-world  sway  of  Miss  Marks, 
I  had  slept  beneath  a  load  of  blankets,  had  never 
gone  out  save  weighted  with  great  coat  and 
comforter,  and  had  been  protected  from  fresh 

241 


FATHER   AND   SON 

air  as  if  from  a  pestilence.  With  real  courage  my 
step-mother  reversed  all  this.  My  bed-room  win- 
dow stood  wide  open  all  night  long,  wraps  were 
done  away  with,  or  exchanged  for  flannel  garments 
next  the  skin,  and  I  was  urged  to  be  out  and 
about  as  much  as  possible. 

All  the  quidnuncs  among  the  "saints"  shook 
their  heads;  Mary  Grace  Burmington,  a  little 
embittered  by  the  downfall  of  her  Marks,  made 
a  solemn  remonstrance  to  my  Father,  who,  how- 
ever, allowed  my  step-mother  to  carry  out  her 
excellent  plan.  My  health  responded  rapidly  to 
this  change  of  regime,  but  increase  of  health  did 
not  bring  increase  of  spirituality.  My  Father, 
fully  occupied  with  moulding  the  will  and  inflam- 
ing the  piety  of  my  step-mother,  left  me  now,  to 
a  degree  not  precedented,  in  undisturbed  posses- 
sion of  my  own  devices.  I  did  not  lose  my  faith, 
but  many  other  things  took  a  prominent  place  in 
my  mind. 

It  will,  I  suppose,  be  admitted  that  there  is 
no  greater  proof  of  complete  religious  sincerity 
than  fervour  in  private  prayer.  If  an  individual, 
alone  by  the  side  of  his  bed,  prolongs  his  inter- 
cessions, lingers  wrestling  with  his  divine  Com- 
panion, and  will  not  leave  off  until  he  has  what 
he  believes  to  be  evidence  of  a  reply  to  his  en- 
treaties— then,  no  matter  what  the  character  of 

242 


FATHER   AND   SON 

his  public  protestations,  or  what  the  frailty  of  his 
actions,  it  is  absolutely  certain  that  he  believes 
in  what  he  professes. 

.  My  Father  prayed  in  private  in  what  I  may 
almost  call  a  spirit  of  violence.  He  entreated  for 
spiritual  guidance  with  nothing  less  than  impor- 
tunity. It  might  be  said  that  he  stormed  the 
citadels  of  God's  grace,  refusing  to  be  baffled, 
urging  his  intercessions  without  mercy  upon  a 
Deity  who  sometimes  struck  me  as  inattentive 
to  his  prayers  or  wearied  by  them.  My  Father's 
acts  of  supplication,  as  I  used  to  witness  them 
at  night,  when  I  was  supposed  to  be  asleep, 
were  accompanied  by  stretchings  out  of  the 
hands,  by  crackings  of  the  joints  of  the  fingers, 
by  deep  breathings,  by  murmurous  sounds  which 
seemed  just  breaking  out  of  silence,  like  Virgil's 
bees  out  of  the  hive,  magnis  clamoribus.  My 
Father  fortified  his  religious  fife  by  prayer  as  an 
athlete  does  his  physical  life  by  lung-gymnastics 
and  vigorous  rubbings. 

It  was  a  trouble  to  my  conscience  that  I  could 
not  emulate  this  fervour.  The  poverty  of  my 
prayers  had  now  long  been  a  source  of  distress 
to  me,  but  I  could  not  discover  how  to  enrich 
them.  My  Father  used  to  warn  us  very  solemnly 
against  " lip-service,"  by  which  he  meant  singing 
hymns  of  experience  and  joining  in  ministrations 

243 


FATHER   AND   SON 

in  which  our  hearts  took  no  vital  or  personal 
part.  This  was  an  outward  act,  the  tendency  of 
which  I  could  well  appreciate,  but  there  was  a 
"lip-service"  even  more  deadly  than  that,  against 
which  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  warn  me.  It 
assailed  me  when  I  had  come  alone  by  my  bed- 
side, and  had  blown  out  the  candle,  and  had 
sunken  on  my  knees  in  my  night-gown.  Then 
it  was  that  my  deadness  made  itself  felt,  in  the 
mechanical  address  I  put  up,  the  emptiness  of 
my  language,  the  absence  of  all  real  unction. 

I  never  could  contrive  to  ask  God  for  spiritual 
gifts  in  the  same  voice  and  spirit  in  which  I  could 
ask  a  human  being  for  objects  which  I  knew  he 
could  give  me,  and  which  I  earnestly  desired  to 
possess.  That  sense  of  the  reality  of  intercession 
was  for  ever  denied  me,  and  it  was,  I  now  see, 
the  stigma  of  my  want  of  faith.  But  at  the  time, 
of  course,  I  suspected  nothing  of  the  kind,  and 
I  tried  to  keep  up  my  zeal  by  a  desperate  mental 
flogging,  as  if  my  soul  had  been  a  peg-top. 

In  nothing  did  I  gain  from  the  advent  of  my 
step-mother  more  than  in  the  encouragement  she 
gave  to  my  friendships  with  a  group  of  boys  of 
my  own  age,  of  whom  I  had  now  lately  formed 
the  acquaintance.  These  friendships  she  not 
merely  tolerated,  but  fostered;  it  was  even  due 
to  her  kind  arrangements  that  they  took  a  certain 

244 


FATHER   AND   SON 

set  form,  that  our  excursions  started  from  this 
house  or  from  that  on  regular  days.  I  hardly 
know  by  what  stages  I  ceased  to  be  a  lonely  little 
creature  of  mock-monographs  and  mud-pies,  and 
became  a  member  of  a  sort  of  club  of  eight  or  ten 
active  boys.  The  long  summer  holidays  of  1861 
were  set  in  an  enchanting  brightness. 

Looking  back,  I  cannot  see  a  cloud  on  the 
terrestrial  horizon — I  see  nothing  but  a  blaze  of 
sunshine;  descents  of  slippery  grass  to  moons  of 
snow-white  shingle,  cold  to  the  bare  flesh;  red 
promontories  running  out  into  a  sea  that  was  like 
sapphire;  and  our  happy  clan  climbing,  bathing, 
boating,  lounging,  chattering,  all  the  hot  day 
through.  Once  more  I  have  to  record  the  fact, 
which  I  think  is  not  without  interest,  that  pre- 
cisely as  my  life  ceases  to  be  solitary,  it  ceases  to 
be  distinct.  I  have  no  difficulty  in  recalling,  with 
the  minuteness  of  a  photograph,  scenes  in  which 
my  Father  and  I  were  the  sole  actors  within  the 
four  walls  of  a  room,  but  of  the  glorious  life 
among  wild  boys  on  the  margin  of  the  sea  I  have 
nothing  but  vague  and  broken  impressions,  deli- 
cious and  illusive. 

It  was  a  remarkable  proof  of  my  Father's 
temporary  lapse  into  indulgence  that  he  made 
no  effort  to  thwart  my  intimacy  with  these  my 
new  companions.    He  was  in  an  unusually  humane 

245 


FATHER   AND   SON 

mood  himself.  His  marriage  was  one  proof  of 
it;  another  was  the  composition  at  this  time  of 
the  most  picturesque,  easy  and  graceful  of  all 
his  writings,  "The  Romance  of  Natural  History," 
even  now  a  sort  of  classic.  Everything  combined 
to  make  him  believe  that  the  blessing  of  the  Lord 
was  upon  him,  and  to  clothe  the  darkness  of  the 
world  with  at  least  a  mist  of  rose-colour.  I  do 
not  recollect  that  ever  at  this  time  he  bethought 
him,  when  I  started  in  the  morning  for  a  long 
day  with  my  friends  on  the  edge  of  the  sea,  to 
remind  me  that  I  must  speak  to  them,  in  season 
and  out  of  season,  of  the  Blood  of  Jesus.  And  I, 
young  coward  that  I  was,  let  sleeping  dogmas  lie. 
My  companions  were  not  all  of  them  the  sons  of 
saints  in  our  communion;  their  parents  belonged 
to  that  professional  class  which  we  were  only 
now  beginning  to  attract  to  our  services.  They 
were  brought  up  in  religious,  but  not  in  fanatical, 
families,  and  I  was  the  only  "converted"  one 
among  them.  Mrs.  Paget,  of  whom  I  shall 
have  presently  to  speak,  characteristically  said 
that  it  grieved  her  to  see  "one  lamb  among  so 
many  kids."  But  "kid"  is  a  word  of  varied 
significance,  and  the  symbol  did  not  seem  to  us 
effectively  applied.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  made 
what  I  still  feel  was  an  excellent  tacit  compromise. 
My  young  companions  never  jeered  at  me  for 

246 


FATHER   AND   SON 

being  "in  communion  with  the  saints,"  and  I,  on 
my  part,  never  urged  the  Atonement  upon  them. 
I  began,  in  fact,  more  and  more  to  keep  my  own 
religion  for  use  on  Sundays. 

It  will,  I  hope,  have  been  observed  that  among 
the  very  curious  grown-up  people  into  whose 
company  I  was  thrown,  although  many  were 
frail  and  some  were  foolish,  none,  so  far  as  I  can 
discern,  were  hypocritical.  I  am  not  one  of 
those  who  believe  that  hypocrisy  is  a  vice  that 
grows  on  every  bush.  Of  course,  in  religious 
more  than  in  any  other  matters,  there  is  a  per- 
petual contradiction  between  our  thoughts  and 
our  deeds  which  is  inevitable  to  our  social  order, 
and  is  bound  to  lead  to  "cette  tromperie  mutuelle" 
of  which  Pascal  speaks.  But  I  have  often  won- 
dered, while  admiring  the  splendid  portrait  of 
Tartufe,  whether  such  a  monster  ever,  or  at  least 
often,  has  walked  the  stage  of  life;  whether 
Moliere  observed,  or  only  invented  him. 

To  adopt  a  scheme  of  religious  pretension,  with 
no  belief  whatever  in  its  being  true,  merely  for 
sensuous  advantage,  openly  acknowledging  to  one's 
inner  self  the  brazen  system  of  deceit, — such  a 
course  may,  and  doubtless  has  been,  trodden, 
yet  surely  much  less  frequently  than  cynics  love 
to  suggest.  But  at  the  juncture  which  I  have 
now  reached  in  my  narrative,  I  had  the  advantage 

247 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  knowing  a  person  who  was  branded  before  the 
whole  world,  and  punished  by  the  law  of  his 
country,  as  a  felonious  hypocrite.  My  Father 
himself  could  only  sigh  and  admit  the  charge. 
And  yet — I  doubt. 

About  half-way  between  our  village  and  the 
town  there  lay  a  comfortable  villa  inhabited  by 
a  retired  solicitor,  or  perhaps  attorney,  whom  I 
shall  name  Mr.  Dormant.  We  often  called  at  his 
half-way  house,  and,  although  he  was  a  member 
of  the  town-meeting,  he  not  unfrequently  came 
up  to  us  for  "the  breaking  of  bread."  Mr. 
Dormant  was  a  solid,  pink  man,  of  a  cosy  habit. 
He  had  beautiful  white  hair,  a  very  soft  voice, 
and  a  welcoming,  wheedling  manner;  he  was 
extremely  fluent  and  zealous  in  using  the  pious 
phraseology  of  the  sect.  My  Father  had  never 
been  very  much  attracted  to  him,  but  the  man 
professed,  and  I  think  felt,  an  overwhelming  ad- 
miration for  my  Father.  Mr.  Dormant  was  not 
very  well  off,  and  in  the  previous  year  he  had 
persuaded  an  aged  gentleman  of  wealth  to  come 
and  board  with  him.  When,  in  the  course  of 
the  winter,  this  gentleman  died,  much  surprise 
was  felt  at  the  report  that  he  had  left  almost  his 
entire  fortune,  which  was  not  inconsiderable,  to 
Mr.  Dormant. 

Much  surprise — for  the  old  gentleman  had  a 
248 


FATHER   AND   SON 

son  to  whom  he  had  always  been  warmly  attached, 
who  was  far  away,  I  think  in  South  America, 
practising  a  perfectly  respectable  profession  of 
which  his  father  entirely  approved.  My  own 
Father  always  preserved  a  delicacy  and  a  sense 
of  honour  about  money  which  could  not  have 
been  more  sensitive  if  he  had  been  an  ungodly 
man,  and  I  am  very  much  pleased  to  remember 
that  when  the  legacy  was  first  spoken  of,  he  re- 
gretted that  Mr.  Dormant  should  have  allowed 
the  old  gentleman  to  make  this  will;  if  he  knew 
the  intention,  my  Father  said,  it  would  have 
shown  a  more  proper  sense  of  his  responsibility 
if  he  had  dissuaded  the  testator  from  so  unbe- 
coming a  disposition.  That  was  long  before  any 
legal  question  arose;  and  now  Mr.  Dormant 
came  into  his  fortune,  and  began  to  make  hand- 
some gifts  to  missionary  societies,  and  to  his  own 
meeting  in  the  town.  If  I  do  not  mistake,  he 
gave,  unsolicited,  a  sum  to  our  building  fund, 
which  my  Father  afterwards  returned.  But  in 
process  of  time  we  heard  that  the  son  had  come 
back  from  the  Antipodes,  and  was  making  in- 
vestigations. Before  we  knew  where  we  were, 
the  news  burst  upon  us,  like  a  bomb-shell,  that 
Mr.  Dormant  had  been  arrested  on  a  criminal 
charge  and  was  now  in  gaol  at  Exeter. 
Sympathy  was  at  first  much  extended  amongst 
249 


FATHER   AND   SON 

us  to  the  prisoner.  But  it  was  lessened  when  we 
understood  that  the  old  gentleman  had  been 
"converted"  while  under  Dormant's  roof,  and  had 
given  the  fact  that  his  son  was  "an  unbeliever" 
as  a  reason  for  disinheriting  him.  All  doubt  was 
set  aside  when  it  was  divulged,  under  pressure,  by 
the  nurse  who  attended  on  the  old  gentleman, 
herself  one  of  the  "saints,"  that  Dormant  had 
traced  the  signature  to  the  will  by  drawing  the 
fingers  of  the  testator  over  the  document  when 
he  was  already  and  finally  comatose. 

My  Father,  setting  aside  by  a  strong  effort  of  will 
the  repugnance  which  he  felt,  visited  the  prisoner  in 
gaol  before  this  final  evidence  had  been  extracted. 
When  he  returned  he  said  that  Dormant  appeared 
to  be  enjoying  a  perfect  confidence  of  heart,  and 
had  expressed  a  sense  of  his  joy  and  peace  in  the 
Lord;  my  Father  regretted  that  he  had  not  been 
able  to  persuade  him  to  admit  any  error,  even 
of  judgment.  But  the  prisoner's  attitude  in  the 
dock,  when  the  facts  were  proved,  and  not  by  him 
denied,  was  still  more  extraordinary.  He  could 
be  induced  to  exhibit  no  species  of  remorse,  and, 
to  the  obvious  anger  of  the  judge  himself,  stated 
that  he  had  only  done  his  duty  as  a  Christian,  in 
preventing  this  wealth  from  coming  into  the 
hands  of  an  ungodly  man,  who  would  have  spent 
it  in  the  service  of  the  flesh  and  of  the  devil. 

250 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Sternly  reprimanded  by  the  judge,  he  made  the 
final  statement  that  at  that  very  moment  he  was 
conscious  of  his  Lord's  presence,  in  the  dock  at 
his  side,  whispering  to  him  "Well  done,  thou  good 
and  faithful  servant!"  In  this  frame  of  con- 
science, and  with  a  glowing  countenance,  he  was 
hurried  away  to  penal  servitude. 

This  was  a  very  painful  incident,  and  it  is  easy 
to  see  how  compromising,  how  cruel,  it  was  in 
its  effect  upon  our  communion;  what  occasion 
it  gave  to  our  enemies  to  blaspheme.  No  one, 
in  either  meeting,  could  or  would  raise  a  voice 
to  defend  Mr.  Dormant.  We  had  to  bow  our 
heads  when  we  met  our  enemies  in  the  gate. 
The  blow  fell  more  heavily  on  the  meeting  of 
which  he  had  been  a  prominent  and  communicat- 
ing member,  but  it  fell  on  us  too,  and  my  Father 
felt  it  severely.  For  many  years  he  would  never 
mention  the  man's  name,  and  he  refused  all  dis- 
cussion of  the  incident. 

Yet  I  was  never  sure,  and  I  am  not  sure  now, 
that  the  wretched  being  was  a  hypocrite.  There 
are  as  many  vulgar  fanatics  as  there  are  distin- 
guished ones,  and  I  am  not  convinced  that  Dor- 
mant, coarse  and  narrow  as  he  was,  may  not 
have  sincerely  believed  that  it  was  better  for  the 
money  to  be  used  in  religious  propaganda  than 
in  the  pleasures  of  the  world,  of  which  he  doubt- 

251 


FATHER   AND   SON 

less  formed  a  very  vague  idea.  On  this  affair  I 
meditated  much,  and  it  awakened  in  my  mind, 
for  the  first  time,  a  doubt  whether  our  exclusive 
system  of  ethics  was  an  entirely  salutary  one, 
if  it  could  lead  the  conscience  of  a  believer 
to  tolerate  such  acts  as  these,  acts  which  my 
Father  himself  had  denounced  as  dishonourable 
and  disgraceful. 

My  step-mother  brought  with  her  a  little 
library  of  such  books  as  we  had  not  previously 
seen,  but  which  yet  were  known  to  all  the  world 
except  us.  Prominent  among  these  was  a  set 
of  the  poems  of  Walter  Scott,  and  in  his  un- 
wonted geniality  and  provisional  spirit  of  com- 
promise, my  Father  must  do  no  less  than  read 
these  works  aloud  to  my  step-mother  in  the  quiet 
spring  evenings.  This  was  a  sort  of  aftermath 
of  courtship,  a  tribute  of  song  to  his  bride,  very 
sentimental  and  pretty.  She  would  sit,  sedately, 
at  her  work-box,  while  he,  facing  her,  poured 
forth  the  verses  at  her  like  a  blackbird.  I  was 
not  considered  in  this  arrangement,  which  was 
wholly  matrimonial,  but  I  was  present,  and  the 
exercise  made  more  impression  upon  me  than  it 
did  upon  either  of  the  principal  agents. 

My  Father  read  the  verse  admirably,  with  a  full, 
— some  people  (but  not  I)  might  say  with  too  full 
— a  perception  of  the  metre  as  well  as  of  the 

252 


FATHER   AND   SON 

rhythm,  rolling  out  the  rhymes,  and  glorying  in 
the  proper  names.  He  began,  and  it  was  a  happy 
choice,  with  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake."  It  gave 
me  singular  pleasure  to  hear  his  large  voice  do 
justice  to  "Duncrannon"  and  "Cambus-Ken- 
neth,"  and  wake  the  echoes  with  "Roderigh  Vich 
Alphine  dhu,  ho!  ieroe!"  I  almost  gasped  with 
excitement,  while  a  shudder  floated  down  my 
backbone,  when  we  came  to: 

A  sharp  and  shrieking  echo  gave, 
Coir-Uriskin,  thy  goblin  cave! 
And  the  grey  pass  where  birches  wave, 
On  Beala-nam-bo, 

a  passage  which  seemed  to  me  to  achieve  the 
ideal  of  sublime  romance.  My  thoughts  were 
occupied  all  day  long  with  the  adventures  of 
Fitz james  and  the  denizens  of  Ellen's  Isle.  It 
became  an  obsession,  and  when  I  was  asked 
whether  I  remembered  the  name  of  the  cottage 
where  the  minister  of  the  Bible  Christians  lodged, 
I  answered,  dreamily,  "Yes, — Beala-nam-bo." 

Seeing  me  so  much  fascinated,  thrown  indeed 
into  a  temporary  frenzy,  by  the  epic  poetry  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  my  step-mother  asked  my 
Father  whether  I  might  not  start  reading  the 
Waverley  Novels.  But  he  refused  to  permit  this, 
on  the  ground  that  those  tales  gave  false  and 

253 


FATHER   AND   SON 

disturbing  pictures  of  life,  and  would  lead  away 
my  attention  from  heavenly  things.  I  do  not 
fully  apprehend  what  distinction  he  drew  between 
the  poems,  which  he  permitted,  and  the  novels, 
which  he  refused.  But  I  suppose  he  regarded  a 
work  in  verse  as  more  artificial,  and  therefore  less 
likely  to  make  a  realistic  impression,  than  one  in 
prose.  There  is  something  quaint  in  the  con- 
scientious scruple  which  allows  "The  Lord  of  the 
Isles"  and  excludes  "Rob  Roy." 

But,  stranger  still,  and  amounting  almost  to  a 
whim,  was  his  sudden  decision  that,  although  I 
might  not  touch  the  novels  of  Scott,  I  was  free  to 
read  those  of  Dickens.  I  recollect  that  my  step- 
mother showed  some  surprise  at  this,  and  that  my 
Father  explained  to  her  that  Dickens  "exposes  the 
passion  of  love  in  a  ridiculous  light."  She  did  not 
seem  to  follow  this  recommendation,  which  indeed 
tends  to  the  ultra-subtle,  but  she  procured  for  me 
a  copy  of  "Pickwick,"  by  which  I  was  instantly 
and  gloriously  enslaved.  My  shouts  of  laughing 
at  the  richer  passages  were  almost  scandalous,  and 
led  to  my  being  reproved  for  disturbing  my 
Father  while  engaged,  in  an  upper  room,  in  the 
study  of  God's  Word.  I  must  have  expended 
months  on  the  perusal  of  "Pickwick,"  for  I  used 
to  rush  through  a  chapter,  and  then  read  it 
over  again  very  slowly,  word  for  word,  and  then 

254 


FATHER   AND   SON 

shut  my  eyes  to  realise  the  figures  and  the 
action. 

I  suppose  no  child  will  ever  again  enjoy  that 
rapture  of  unresisting  humorous  appreciation  of 
"  Pickwick."  I  felt  myself  to  be  in  the  company 
of  a  gentleman  so  extremely  funny  that  I  began 
to  laugh  before  he  began  to  speak;  no  sooner  did 
he  remark  "the  sky  was  dark  and  gloomy,  the  air 
was  damp  and  raw,"  than  I  was  in  fits  of  laughter. 
My  retirement  in  our  sequestered  corner  of  life 
made  me,  perhaps,  even  in  this  matter,  somewhat 
old-fashioned,  and  possibly  I  was  the  latest  of 
the  generation  who  accepted  Mr.  Pickwick  with 
an  unquestioning  and  hysterical  abandonment. 
Certainly  few  young  people  now  seem  sensitive, 
as  I  was,  and  as  thousands  before  me  had  been, 
to  the  quality  of  his  fascination. 

It  was  curious  that  living  in  a  household  where 
a  certain  delicate  art  of  painting  was  diligently 
cultivated,  I  had  yet  never  seen  a  real  picture, 
and  was  scarcely  familiar  with  the  design  of  one 
in  engraving.  My  step-mother,  however,  brought 
a  flavour  of  the  fine  arts  with  her;  a  kind  of 
aesthetic  odour,  like  that  of  lavender,  clung  to  her 
as  she  moved.  She  had  known  authentic  artists 
in  her  youth ;  she  had  watched  Old  Crome  painting, 
and  had  taken  a  course  of  drawing-lessons  from  no 
less  a  person  than  Cotman.    She  painted  small 

255 


FATHER   AND   SON 

water-colour  landscapes  herself,  with  a  delicate 
economy  of  means  and  a  graceful  Norwich  con- 
vention ;  her  sketch-books  were  filled  with  abbeys 
gently  washed  in,  river-banks  in  sepia  by  which 
the  elect  might  be  dimly  reminded  of  Liber  Stu- 
diorum,  and  woodland  scenes  over  which  the  ghost 
of  Creswick  had  faintly  breathed.  It  was  not  ex- 
citing art,  but  it  was,  so  far  as  it  went,  in  its  lady- 
like reserve,  the  real  thing.  Our  sea-anemones, 
our  tropic  birds,  our  bits  of  spongy  rock  frilled 
and  sprayed  with  corallines,  had  been  very  con- 
scientious and  skilful,  but,  essentially,  so  far  as 
art  was  concerned,  the  wrong  thing. 

Thus  I  began  to  acquire,  without  understanding 
the  value  of  it,  some  conception  of  the  elegant 
phases  of  early  English  water-colour  painting,  and 
there  was  one  singular  piece  of  a  marble  well 
brimming  with  water,  and  a  greyish-blue  sky 
over  it,  and  dark-green  poplars,  shaped  like  wet 
brooms,  menacing  the  middle  distance,  which 
Cotman  himself  had  touched;  and  this  seemed 
beautiful  and  curious  to  me  in  its  dim,  flat  frame, 
when  it  was  hoisted  to  a  place  on  our  drawing- 
room  wall. 

But  still  I  had  never  seen. a  subject-picture, 
although  my  step-mother  used  to  talk  of  the 
joys  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  it  was  therefore 
with  a  considerable  sense  of  excitement  that  I 

256 


FATHER   AND   SON 

went,  with  my  Father,  to  examine  Mr.  Holman 
Hunt's  Finding  of  Christ  in  the  Temple  which  at 
this  time  was  announced  to  be  on  public  show 
at  our  neighbouring  town.  We  paid  our  shillings 
and  ascended  with  others  to  an  upper  room,  bare 
of  every  disturbing  object,  in  which  a  strong 
top-light  raked  the  large  and  uncompromising 
picture.  We  looked  at  it  for  some  time  in  silence, 
and  then  my  Father  pointed  out  to  me  various 
details,  such  as  the  phylacteries  and  the  mitres 
and  the  robes  which  distinguished  the  high 
priest. 

Some  of  the  other  visitors,  as  I  recollect,  ex- 
pressed astonishment  and  dislike  of  what  they 
called  the  "Preraphaelite"  treatment,  but  we 
were  not  affected  by  that.  Indeed,  if  anything, 
the  exact,  minute  and  hard  execution  of  Mr.  Hunt 
was  in  sympathy  with  the  methods  we  ourselves 
were  in  the  habit  of  using  when  we  painted  butter- 
flies and  sea-weeds,  placing  perfectly  pure  pig- 
ments side  by  side,  without  any  nonsense  about 
chiaroscuro.  This  large,  bright,  comprehensive 
picture  made  a  very  deep  impression  upon  me,  not 
exactly  as  a  work  of  art,  but  as  a  brilliant  natural 
specimen.  I  was  pleased  to  have  seen  it,  as  I  was 
pleased  to  have  seen  the  comet,  and  the  whale 
which  was  brought  to  our  front  door  on  a  truck. 
It  was  a  prominent  addition  to  my  experience. 

257 


FATHER   AND   SON 

The  slender  expansions  of  my  interest  which 
were  now  budding  hither  and  thither  do  not 
seem  to  have  alarmed  my  Father  at  all.  His 
views  were  short;  if  I  appeared  to  be  contented 
and  obedient,  if  I  responded  pleasantly  when 
he  appealed  to  me,  he  was  not  concerned  to  dis- 
cover the  source  of  my  cheerfulness.  He  put 
it  down  to  my  happy  sense  of  joy  in  Christ,  a 
reflection  of  the  sunshine  of  grace  beaming  upon 
me  through  no  intervening  clouds  of  sin  or  doubt. 
The  "saints"  were,  as  a  rule,  very  easy  to  com- 
prehend; their  emotions  lay  upon  the  surface. 
If  they  were  gay,  it  was  because  they  had  no 
burden  on  their  consciences,  while,  if  they  were 
depressed,  the  symptom  might  be  depended  upon 
as  showing  that  their  consciences  were  troubling 
them,  and  if  they  were  indifferent  and  cold,  it 
was  certain  that  they  were  losing  their  faith  and 
becoming  hostile  to  godliness.  It  was  almost  a 
mechanical  matter  with  these  simple  souls.  But, 
although  I  was  so  much  younger,  I  was  more 
complex  and  more  crafty  than  the  peasant 
"saints."  My  Father,  not  a  very  subtle  psycholo- 
gist, applied  to  me  the  same  formulas  which  served 
him  well  at  the  meeting,  but  in  my  case  the  re- 
sults were  less  uniformly  successful. 

The  excitement  of  school-life  and  the  enlarge- 
ment of  my  circle  of  interests,  combined  to  make 

258 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Sunday,  by  contrast,  a  very  tedious  occasion. 
The  absence  of  every  species  of  recreation  on  the 
Lord's  Day  grew  to  be  a  burden  which  might 
scarcely  be  borne.  I  have  said  that  my  freedom 
during  the  week  had  now  become  considerable; 
if  I  was  at  home  punctually  at  meal-times,  the 
rest  of  my  leisure  was  not  challenged.  But  this 
liberty,  which  in  the  summer  holidays  came  to 
surpass  that  of  "fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep," 
was  put  into  more  and  more  painful  contrast 
with  the   unbroken  servitude   of  Sunday. 

My  Father  objected  very  strongly  to  the  ex- 
pression Sabbath-day,  as  it  is  commonly  used  by 
Presbyterians  and  others.  He  said,  quite  justly, 
that  it  was  an  inaccurate  modern  innovation,  that 
Sabbath  was  Saturday,  the  seventh  day  of  the 
week,  not  the  first,  a  Jewish  festival  and  not  a 
Christian  commemoration.  Yet  his  exaggerated 
view  with  regard  to  the  observance  of  the  First 
Day,  namely,  that  it  must  be  exclusively  occupied 
with  public  and  private  exercises  of  divine  wor- 
ship, was  based  much  more  upon  a  Jewish  than 
upon  a  Christian  law.  In  fact,  I  do  not  remem- 
ber that  my  Father  ever  produced  a  definite 
argument  from  the  New  Testament  in  support  of 
his  excessive  passivity  on  the  Lord's  Day.  He 
followed  the  early  Puritan  practice,  except  that 
he  did  not  extend  his  observance,  as  I  believe 

259 


FATHER   AND   SON 

the  old  Puritans  did,  from  sunset  on  Saturday  to 
sunset  on  Sunday. 

The  observance  of  the  Lord's  day  has  already 
become  universally  so  lax  that  I  think  there  may 
be  some  value  in  preserving  an  accurate  record 
of  how  our  Sundays  were  spent  five  and  forty 
years  ago.  We  came  down  to  breakfast  at  the 
usual  time.  My  Father  prayed  briefly  before  we 
began  the  meal;  after  it,  the  bell  was  rung,  and, 
before  the  breakfast  was  cleared  away,  we  had 
a  lengthy  service  of  exposition  and  prayer  with 
the  servants.  If  the  weather  was  fine,  we  then 
walked  about  the  garden,  doing  nothing,  for 
about  half  an  hour.  We  then  sat,  each  in  a 
separate  room,  with  our  Bibles  open  and  some 
commentary  on  the  text  beside  us,  and  prepared 
our  minds  for  the  morning  service.  A  little  before 
11  a.m.  we  sallied  forth,  carrying  our  Bibles  and 
hymn-books,  and  went  through  the  morning-ser- 
vice of  two  hours  at  the  Room;  this  was  the 
central  event  of  Sunday. 

We  then  came  back  to  dinner, — curiously 
enough  to  a  hot  dinner,  always,  with  a  joint, 
vegetables  and  puddings,  so  that  the  cook  at 
least  must  have  been  busily  at  work, — and 
after  it  my  Father  and  my  step-mother  took 
a  nap,  each  in  a  different  room,  while  I  slipped 
out  into  the  garden  for  a  little  while,  but  never 

260 


FATHER   AND   SON 

venturing  further  afield.  In  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon,  my  step-mother  and  I  proceeded  up 
the  village  to  Sunday  School,  where  I  was  early 
promoted  to  the  tuition  of  a  few  very  little  boys. 
We  returned  in  time  for  tea,  immediately  after 
which  we  all  marched  forth,  again  armed,  as  in 
the  morning,  with  Bibles  and  hymn-books,  and 
we  went  through  the  evening-service,  at  which  my 
Father  preached.  The  hour  was  now  already  past 
my  week-day  bed-time,  but  we  had  another 
service  to  attend,  the  Believers'  Prayer  Meeting, 
which  commonly  occupied  forty  minutes  more. 
Then  we  used  to  creep  home,  I  often  so  tired  that 
the  weariness  was  like  physical  pain,  and  I  was 
permitted,  without  further  "worship,"  to  slip  up- 
stairs to  bed. 

What  made  these  Sundays,  the  observance  of 
which  was  absolutely  uniform,  so  peculiarly  try- 
ing was  that  I  was  not  permitted  the  indulgence 
of  any  secular  respite.  I  might  not  open  a  scien- 
tific book,  nor  make  a  drawing,  nor  examine  a 
specimen.  I  was  not  allowed  to  go  into  the  road, 
except  to  proceed  with  my  parents  to  the  Room, 
nor  to  discuss  worldly  subjects  at  meals,  nor  to 
enter  the  little  chamber  where  I  kept  my  treasures. 
I  was  hotly  and  tightly  dressed  in  black,  all  day 
long,  as  though  ready  at  any  moment  to  attend 
a  funeral  with  decorum.  Sometimes,  towards  even- 

261 


FATHER   AND   SON 

ing,  I  used  to  feel  the  monotony  and  weariness 
of  my  position  to  be  almost  unendurable,  but  at 
this  time  I  was  meek,  and  I  bowed  to  what  I  sup- 
posed to  be  the  order  of  the  universe. 


262 


CHAPTER  XI 

As  my  mental  horizon  widened,  my  Father 
followed  the  direction  of  my  spiritual  eyes  with 
some  bewilderment,  and  knew  not  at  what  I 
gazed.  Nor  could  I  have  put  into  words,  nor  can 
I  even  now  define,  the  visions  which  held  my 
vague  and  timid  attention.  As  a  child  develops, 
those  who  regard  it  with  tenderness  or  impatience 
are  seldom  even  approximately  correct  in  their 
analysis  of  its  intellectual  movements,  largely  be- 
cause, if  there  is  anything  to  record,  it  defies  adult 
definition.  One  curious  freak  of  mentality  I 
must  now  mention,  because  it  took  a  considerable 
part  in  the  enfranchisement  of  my  mind,  or  rather 
in  the  formation  of  my  thinking  habits.  But 
neither  my  Father  nor  my  step-mother  knew  what 
to  make  of  it,  and  to  tell  the  truth  I  hardly  know 
what  to  make  of  it  myself. 

Among  the  books  which  my  new  mother  had 
brought  with  her  were  certain  editions  of  the 
poets,  an  odd  assortment.    Campbell  was  there, 

263 


FATHER   AND   SON 

and  Burns,  and  Keats,  and  the  " Tales"  of  Byron. 
Each  of  these  might  have  been  expected  to  appeal 
to  me;  but  my  emotion  was  too  young,  and  I 
did  not  listen  to  them  yet.  Their  imperative 
voices  called  me  later.  By  the  side  of  these  ro- 
mantic classics  stood  a  small,  thick  volume, 
bound  in  black  morocco,  and  comprising  four  re- 
printed works  of  the  eighteenth  century,  gloomy, 
funereal  poems  of  an  order  as  wholly  out  of  date 
as  are  the  cross-bones  and  ruffled  cherubim  on 
the  grave-stones  in  a  country  churchyard.  The 
four — and  in  this  order,  as  I  never  shall  forget — 
were  "The  Last  Day"  of  Dr.  Young,  Blair's 
"Grave,"  "Death"  by  Bishop  Beilby  Porteus,  and 
"The  Deity"  of  Samuel  Boyse.  These  lugubrious 
effusions,  all  in  blank  verse  or  in  the  heroic  couplet, 
represented,  in  its  most  redundant  form,  the 
artistic  theology  of  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  They  were  steeped  in  such  vengeful  and 
hortatory  sentiments  as  passed  for  elegant  piety 
in  the  reign  of  George  II. 

How  I  came  to  open  this  solemn  volume  is 
explained  by  the  oppressive  exclusiveness  of  our 
Sundays.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  Lord's  Day, 
as  I  have  already  explained,  I  might  neither  walk, 
nor  talk,  nor  explore  our  scientific  library,  nor 
indulge  in  furious  feats  of  water-colour  painting. 
The  Plymouth-Brother  theology  which  alone  was 

264 


FATHER   AND   SON 

open  to  me  produced,  at  length,  and  particularly 
on  hot  afternoons,  a  faint  physical  nausea,  a  kind 
of  secret  headache.  But,  hitting  one  day  upon 
the  doleful  book  of  verses,  and  observing  its 
religious  character,  I  asked  "May  I  read  that?" 
and  after  a  brief,  astonished  glance  at  the  con- 
tents, I  received  "0  certainly — if  you  can!" 

The  lawn  sloped  directly  from  a  verandah 
at  our  drawing-room  window,  and  it  contained 
two  immense  elm-trees,  which  had  originally 
formed  part  of  the  hedge  of  a  meadow.  In  our 
trim  and  polished  garden  they  then  remained 
— they  were  soon  afterwards  cut  down — rude  and 
obtuse,  with  something  primeval  about  them, 
something  autochthonous;  they  were  like  two 
peasant  ancestors  surviving  in  a  family  that  had 
advanced  to  gentility.  They  rose  each  out  of 
a  steep  turfed  hillock,  and  the  root  of  one  of  them 
was  long  my  favourite  summer  reading-desk ;  for 
I  could  lie  stretched  on  the  lawn,  with  my  head 
and  shoulders  supported  by  the  elm-tree  hillock, 
and  the  book  in  a  fissure  of  the  rough  turf. 
Thither  then  I  escaped  with  my  grave-yard  poets, 
and  who  shall  explain  the  rapture  with  which  I 
followed  their  austere  morality? 

Whether  I  really  read  consecutively  in  my 
black-bound  volume  I  can  no  longer  be  sure,  but 
it  became  a  companion  whose  society  I  valued, 

265 


FATHER    AND   SON 

and  at  worst  it  was  a  thousand  times  more  con- 
genial to  me  than  Jukes'  "On  the  Apocalypse" 
or  than  a  perfectly  excruciating  work  ambiguously 
styled  "The  Javelin  of  Phineas,"  which  lay 
smouldering  in  a  dull  red  cover  on  the  drawing- 
room  table.  I  dipped  my  bucket  here  and  there 
into  my  poets,  and  I  brought  up  strange  things. 
I  brought  up  out  of  the  depths  of  "The  Last  Day" 
the  following  ejaculation  of  a  soul  roused  by  the 
trump  of  resurrection: — 

Father  of  mercies!    Why  from  silent  earth 
Didst  thou  awake,  and  curse  me  into  birth? 
Tear  me  from  quiet,  ravish  me  from  night, 
And  make  a  thankless  present  of  thy  light? 
Push  into  being  a  reverse  of  thee, 
And  animate  a  clod  with  misery? 

I  read  these  lines  with  a  shiver  of  excitement, 
and  in  a  sense  I  suppose  little  intended  by  the 
sanctimonious  rector  of  Welwyn.  I  also  read  in 
the  same  piece  the  surprising  description  of  how 

Now  charnels  rattle,  scattered  limbs,  and  all 
The  various  bones,  obsequious  to  the  call, 
Self-mov'd,  advance — the  neck  perhaps  to  meet 
The  distant  head,  the  distant  legs  the  feet, 

but  rejected  it  as  not  wholly  supported  by  the 
testimony  of  Scripture.  I  think  that  the  rhetoric 
and  vigorous  advance  of  Young's  verse  were  pleas- 

266 


FATHER   AND   SON 

ant  to  me.  Beilby  Porteus  I  discarded  from  the 
first  as  impenetrable.  In  "The  Deity," — I  knew 
nothing  then  of  the  life  of  its  extravagant  and 
preposterous  author, — I  took  a  kind  of  persistent, 
penitential  pleasure,  but  it  was  Blair's  "Grave" 
that  really  delighted  me,  and  I  frightened  myself 
with  its  melodious  doleful  images  in  earnest. 

About  this  time  there  was  a  great  flow  of  tea- 
table  hospitality  in  the  village,  and  my  friends 
and  their  friends  used  to  be  asked  out,  by  re- 
spective parents  and  by  more  than  one  amiable 
spinster,  to  faint  little  entertainments  where  those 
sang  who  were  ambitious  to  sing,  and  where  all 
played  post  and  forfeits  after  a  rich  tea.  My 
Father  was  constantly  exercised  in  mind  as  to 
whether  I  should  or  should  not  accept  these 
glittering  invitations.  There  hovered  before  him 
a  painful  sense  of  danger  in  resigning  the  soul  to 
pleasures  which  savoured  of  "the  World."  These, 
though  apparently  innocent  in  themselves,  might 
give  an  appetite  for  yet  more  subversive  dissipa- 
tions. 

I  remember,  on  one  occasion,  when  the  Browns, 
a  family  of  Baptists  who  kept  a  large  haber- 
dashery shop  in  the  neighbouring  town,  asked 
for  the  pleasure  of  my  company  "to  tea  and 
games,"  and  carried  complacency  so  far  as  to 
offer  to  send  that  local  vehicle  "the  midge,"  to 

267 


FATHER   AND   SON 

fetch  me  and  bring  me  back,  my  Father's  con- 
science was  so  painfully  perplexed,  that  he  de- 
sired me  to  come  up  with  him  to  the  now-deserted 
"boudoir"  of  the  departed  Marks,  that  we  might 
"lay  the  matter  before  the  Lord."  We  did  so, 
kneeling  side  by  side,  with  our  backs  to  the  win- 
dow and  our  foreheads  pressed  upon  the  horsehair 
cover  of  the  small  coffin-like  sofa.  My  Father 
prayed  aloud,  with  great  fervour,  that  it  might  be 
revealed  to  me,  by  the  voice  of  God,  whether  it 
was  or  was  not  the  Lord's  will  that  I  should  attend 
the  Browns'  party.  My  Father's  attitude  seemed 
to  me  to  be  hardly  fair,  since  he  did  not  scruple  to 
remind  the  Deity  of  various  objections  to  a  life  of 
pleasure  and  of  the  snakes  that  lie  hidden  in  the 
grass  of  evening  parties.  It  would  have  been  more 
scrupulous,  I  thought,  to  give  no  sort  of  hint  of 
the  kind  of  answer  he  desired  and  expected. 

It  will  be  justly  said  that  my  life  was  made  up 
of  very  trifling  things,  since  I  have  to  confess  that 
this  incident  of  the  Browns'  invitation  was  one 
of  its  landmarks.  As  I  knelt,  feeling  very  small, 
by  the  immense  bulk  of  my  Father,  there  gushed 
through  my  veins  like  a  wine  the  determination 
to  rebel.  Never  before,  in  all  these  years  of  my 
vocation,  had  I  felt  my  resistance  take  precisely 
this  definite  form.  We  rose  presently  from  the 
sofa,  my  forehead  and  the  backs  of  my  bands 

26$ 


FATHER   AND   SON 

still  chafed  by  the  texture  of  the  horsehair,  and 
we  faced  one  another  in  the  dreary  light.  My 
Father,  perfectly  confident  in  the  success  of  what 
had  really  been  a  sort  of  incantation,  asked  me 
in  a  loud  wheedling  voice,  "Well,  and  what  is  the 
answer  which  our  Lord  vouchsafes?"  I  said 
nothing,  and  so  my  Father,  more  sharply,  con- 
tinued, "We  have  asked  Him  to  direct  you  to  a 
true  knowledge  of  His  will.  We  have  desired 
Him  to  let  you  know  whether  it  is,  or  is  not,  in 
accordance  with  His  wishes  that  you  should  ac- 
cept this  invitation  from  the  Browns."  He  posi- 
tively beamed  down  at  me;  he  had  no  doubt  of 
the  reply.  He  was  already,  I  believe,  planning 
some  little  treat  to  make  up  to  me  for  the  material 
deprivation.  But  my  answer  came,  in  the  high- 
piping  accents  of  despair:  "The  Lord  says  I  may 
go  to  the  Browns."  My  Father  gazed  at  me  in 
speechless  horror.  He  was  caught  in  his  own 
trap,  and  though  he  was  certain  that  the  Lord 
had  said  nothing  of  the  kind,  there  was  no  road 
open  for  him  but  just  sheer  retreat.  Yet  surely 
it  was  an  error  in  tactics  to  slam  the  door. 

It  was  at  this  party  at  the  Browns' — to  which 
I  duly  went,  although  in  sore  disgrace — that  my 
charnel  poets  played  me  a  mean  trick.  It  was 
proposed  that  "our  young  friends"  should  give 
their  elders  the  treat  of   repeating  any  pretty 

269 


FATHER   AND   SON 

pieces  that  they  knew  by  heart.  Accordingly  a 
little  girl  recited  "Casabianca,"  and  another  little 
girl  "We  are  Seven,"  and  various  children  were 
induced  to  repeat  hymns,  "some  rather  long,"  as 
Calverley  says,  but  all  very  mild  and  innocuously 
evangelical.  I  was  then  asked  by  Mrs.  Brown's 
maiden  sister,  a  gushing  lady  in  corkscrew  curls, 
who  led  the  revels,  whether  I  also  would  not  in- 
dulge them  "by  repeating  some  sweet  stanzas." 
No  one  more  ready  than  I.  Without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  I  stood  forth,  and  in  a  loud  voice  I 
began  one  of  my  favourite  passages  from  Blair's 
"Grave":— 


If  death  were  nothing,  and  nought  after  death, — 
If  when  men  died  at  once  they  ceased  to  be, — 
Returning  to  the  barren  Womb  of  Nothing 
Whence  first  they  sprung,  then  might  the  debauchee- 


" Thank  you,  dear,  that  will  do  nicely!"  said 
the  lady  with  the  curls.  "But  that's  only  the 
beginning  of  it,"  I  cried.  "Yes,  dear,  but  that 
will  quite  do!  We  won't  ask  you  to  repeat  any 
more  of  it,"  and  I  withdrew  to  the  borders  of  the 
company  in  bewilderment.  Nor  did  the  Browns 
or  their  visitors  ever  learn  what  it  was  the  de- 
bauchee might  have  said  or  done  in  more  favour- 
able circumstances. 

The  growing  eagerness  which  I  displayed  for 
270 


FATHER   AND   SON 

the  society  of  selected  school-fellows  and  for  such 
gentle  dissipations  as  were  within  my  reach  exer- 
cised my  Father  greatly.  His  fancy  rushed  for- 
ward with  the  pace  of  a  steam-engine,  and  saw 
me  the  life  and  soul  of  a  gambling  club,  or  flaunting 
it  at  the  Mabille.  He  had  no  confidence  in  the 
action  of  moderating  powers,  and  he  was  fond 
of  repeating  that  the  downward  path  is  easy. 
If  one  fretted  to  be  bathing  with  one's  companions 
on  the  shingle,  and  preferred  this  exercise  to  the 
study  of  God's  Word,  it  was  a  symbol  of  a  terrible 
decline,  the  angle  of  which  would  grow  steeper 
and  steeper,  till  one  plunged  into  perdition.  He 
was,  himself,  timid  and  reclusive,  and  he  shrank 
from  all  avoidable  companionship  with  others, 
except  on  the  footing  of  a  master  and  teacher. 
My  step-mother  and  I,  who  neither  taught  nor 
ruled,  yearned  for  a  looser  chain  and  lighter  rela- 
tionships. With  regard  to  myself,  my  Father 
about  this  time  hit  on  a  plan  from  which  he  hoped 
much,  but  from  which  little  resulted.  He  looked 
to  George  to  supply  what  my  temperament 
seemed  to  require  of  congenial  juvenile  compan- 
ionship. 

If  I  have  not  mentioned  "George"  until  now, 
it  is  not  that  he  was  a  new  acquaintance.  When 
we  first  came  down  into  the  country,  our  sym- 
pathy had  been  called  forth  by  an  accident  to  a 

271 


FATHER   AND   SON 

little  boy,  who  was  knocked  over  by  a  horse,  and 
whose  thigh  was  broken.  Somebody  (I  suppose 
Mary  Grace,  since  my  Father  could  rarely  bring 
himself  to  pay  these  public  visits)  went  to  see  the 
child  in  the  infirmary,  and  accidentally  discovered 
that  he  was  exactly  the  same  age  that  I  was. 
This,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  a  meditative  and 
sober  little  boy,  attracted  us  all  still  further  to 
George,  who  became  converted  under  one  of  my 
Father's  sermons.  He  attended  my  public  bap- 
tism, and  was  so  much  moved  by  this  ceremony 
that  he  passionately  desired  to  be  baptized  also, 
and  was  in  fact  so  immersed,  a  few  months  later, 
slightly  to  my  chagrin,  since  I  thereupon  ceased 
to  be  the  only  infant  prodigy  in  communion. 
When  we  were  both  in  our  thirteenth  year,  George 
became  an  out-door  servant  to  us,  and  did  odd 
jobs  under  the  gardener.  My  Father,  finding  him, 
as  he  said,  "  docile,  obedient  and  engaging," 
petted  George  a  good  deal,  and  taught  him  a  little 
botany.  He  called  George,  by  a  curious  contor- 
tion of  thought,  my  " spiritual  foster-brother,"  and 
anticipated  for  him,  I  think,  a  career,  like  mine, 
in  the  Ministry. 

Our  garden  suffered  from  an  incursion  of  slugs, 
which  laid  the  verbenas  in  the  dust,  and  shore 
off  the  carnations  as  if  with  pairs  of  scissors. 
To  cope  with  this  plague  we  invested  in  a  drake 

272 


FATHER   AND   SON 

and  a  duck,  who  were  christened  Philemon  and 
Baucis.  Every  night  large  cabbage-leaves,  con- 
taining the  lees  of  beer,  were  spread  about  the 
flower-beds  as  traps,  and  at  dawn  these  had 
become  green  parlours  crammed  with  intoxicated 
slugs.  One  of  George's  earliest  morning  duties 
was  to  free  Philemon  and  Baucis  from  their 
coop,  and,  armed  with  a  small  wand,  to  guide 
their  footsteps  to  the  feast  in  one  cabbage-leaf 
after  another.  My  Father  used  to  watch  this 
performance  from  an  upper  window,  and  in  mo- 
ments of  high  facetiousness,  he  was  wont  to 
parody  the  poet  Gray: 

How  jocund  doth  George  drive  his  team  afield ! 

This  is  all  or  almost  all,  that  I  remember  about 
George's  occupations,  but  he  was  singularly  blame- 
less. 

My  Father's  plan  now  was  that  I  should 
form  a  close  intimacy  with  George,  as  a  boy  of 
my  own  age,  of  my  own  faith,  of  my  own  future. 
My  step-mother,  still  in  bondage  to  the  social 
conventions,  was  passionately  troubled  at  this, 
and  urged  the  barrier  of  class-differences.  My 
Father  replied  that  such  an  intimacy  would  keep 
me  " lowly,"  and  that  from  so  good  a  boy  as 
George  I  could  learn  nothing  undesirable.    "He 

273 


FATHER   AND   SON 

will  encourage  him  not  to  wipe  his  boots  when  he 
comes  into  the  house,"  said  my  step-mother,  and 
my  Father  sighed  to  think  how  narrow  is  the 
horizon  of  Woman's  view  of  heavenly  things. 

In  this  caprice,  if  I  may  call  it  so,  I  think  that 
my  Father  had  before  him  the  fine  republican 
example  of  "Sandford  and  Merton,"  a  part  of 
which  book  he  admired  extremely.  Accordingly 
George  and  I  were  sent  out  to  take  walks  together, 
and  as  we  started,  my  Father,  with  an  air  of 
great  benevolence,  would  suggest  some  passage  of 
Scripture,  "some  aspect  of  God's  bountiful  scheme 
in  creation,  on  which  you  may  profitably  meditate 
together."  George  and  I  never  pursued  the  dis- 
cussion of  the  text  with  which  my  Father  started 
us  for  more  than  a  minute  or  two;  then  we 
fell  into  silence,  or  investigated  current  scenes 
and  rustic  topics. 

As  is  natural  among  the  children  of  the  poor, 
George  was  precocious  where  I  was  infantile,  and 
undeveloped  where  I  was  elaborate.  Our  minds 
could  hardly  find  a  point  at  which  to  touch.  He 
gave  me,  however,  under  cross-examination,  inter- 
esting hints  about  rural  matters,  and  I  liked  him, 
although  I  felt  his  company  to  be  insipid.  Some- 
times he  carried  my  books  by  my  side  to  the  larger 
and  more  distant  school  which  I  now  attended, 
but  I  was  always  in  a  fever  of  dread  lest  my 

274 


FATHER   AND   SON 

school-fellows  should  see  him,  and  should  accuse 
me  of  having  to  be  " brought"  to  school.  To 
explain  to  them  that  the  companionship  of  this 
wholesome  and  rather  blunt  young  peasant  was 
part  of  my  spiritual  discipline  would  have  been 
all  beyond  my  powers. 

It  was  soon  after  this  that  my  step-mother 
made  her  one  vain  effort  to  break  through  the 
stillness  of  our  lives.  My  Father's  energy  seemed 
to  decline,  to  become  more  fitful,  to  take  unseason- 
able directions.  My  mother  instinctively  felt  that 
his  peculiarities  were  growing  upon  him;  he  would 
scarcely  stir  from  his  microscope,  except  to  go 
to  the  chapel,  and  he  was  visible  to  fewer  and 
fewer  visitors.  She  had  taken  a  pleasure  in  his 
literary  eminence,  and  she  was  aware  that  this, 
too,  would  slip  from  him;  that,  so  persistently 
kept  out  of  sight,  he  must  soon  be  out  of  mind. 
I  know  not  how  she  gathered  courage  for  her 
tremendous  effort,  but  she  took  me,  I  recollect, 
into  her  counsels.  We  were  to  unite  to  oblige 
my  Father  to  start  to  his  feet  and  face  the  world. 
Alas!  we  might  as  well  have  attempted  to  rouse 
the  summit  of  Yes  Tor  into  volcanic  action.  To 
my  mother's  arguments,  my  Father — with  that 
baffling  smile  of  his — replied:  "I  esteem  the 
reproach  of  Christ  greater  riches  than  the  treas- 
ures of  Egypt!"  and  that  this  answer  was  indirect 

275 


FATHER   AND   SON 

made  it  none  the  less  conclusive.  My  mother 
wished  him  to  give  lectures,  to  go  to  London,  to 
read  papers  before  the  Royal  Society,  to  enter 
into  controversy  with  foreign  savants,  to  conduct 
classes  of  out-door  zoology  at  fashionable  watering- 
places.  I  held  my  breath  with  admiration  as 
she  poured  forth  her  scheme,  so  daring,  so  brilliant, 
so  sure  to  cover  our  great  man  with  glory.  He 
listened  to  her  with  an  ambiguous  smile,  and 
shook  his  head  at  us,  and  resumed  the  reading 
of  his  Bible. 

At  the  date  at  which  I  write  these  pages,  the 
arts  of  illustration  are  so  universally  diffused  that 
it  is  difficult  to  realise  the  darkness  in  which  a 
remote  English  village  was  plunged  half  a  century 
ago.  No  opportunity  was  offered  to  us  dwellers 
in  remote  places  of  realising  the  outward  appear- 
ances of  unfamiliar  persons,  scenes  or  things. 
Although  ours  was  perhaps  the  most  cultivated 
household  in  the  parish,  I  had  never  seen  so  much 
as  a  representation  of  a  work  of  sculpture  till 
I  was  thirteen.  My  mother  then  received  from 
her  earlier  home  certain  volumes,  among  which 
was  a  gaudy  gift-book  of  some  kind,  containing 
a  few  steel  engravings  of  statues. 

These  attracted  me  violently,  and  here  for  the 
first  time  I  gazed  on  Apollo  with  his  proud  gesture, 
Venus  in  her  undulations,  the  kirtled  shape  of  Di- 

276 


FATHER   AND   SON 

ana,  and  Jupiter  voluminously  bearded.  Very  lit- 
tle information,  and  that  to  me  not  intelligible,  was 
given  in  the  text,  but  these  were  said  to  be  figures 
of  the  old  Greek  gods.  I  asked  my  Father  to  tell 
me  about  these  '  '  old  Greek  gods. "  His  answer  was 
direct  and  disconcerting.  He  said — how  I  recol- 
lect the  place  and  time,  early  in  the  morning,  as 
I  stood  beside  the  window  in  our  garish  breakfast- 
room — he  said  that  the  so-called  gods  of  the 
Greeks  were  the  shadows  cast  by  the  vices  of  the 
heathen,  and  reflected  their  infamous  lives;  "it 
was  for  such  things  as  these  that  God  poured 
down  brimstone  and  fire  on  the  Cities  of  the 
Plain,  and  there  is  nothing  in  the  legends  of  these 
gods,  or  rather  devils,  that  it  is  not  better  for  a 
Christian  not  to  know."  His  face  blazed  white 
with  Puritan  fury  as  he  said  this — I  see  him  now 
in  my  mind's  eye,  in  his  violent  emotion.  You 
might  have  thought  that  he  had  himself  escaped 
with  horror  from  some  Hellenic  hippodrome. 

My  Father's  prestige  was  by  this  time  consid- 
erably lessened  in  my  mind,  and  though  I  loved 
and  admired  him,  I  had  now  long  ceased  to  hold 
him  infallible.  I  did  not  accept  his  condemna- 
tion of  the  Greeks,  although  I  bowed  to  it.  In 
private  I  returned  to  examine  my  steel  engravings 
of  the  statues,  and  I  reflected  that  they  were  too 
beautiful  to  be  so  wicked  as  my  Father  thought 

277 


FATHER   AND   SON 

they  were.  The  dangerous  and  pagan  notion  that 
beauty  palliates  evil  budded  in  my  mind,  without 
any  external  suggestion,  and  by  this  reflection 
alone  I  was  still  further  sundered  from  the  faith 
in  which  I  had  been  trained.  I  gathered  very 
diligently  all  I  could  pick  up  about  the  Greek 
gods  and  their  statues;  it  was  not  much,  it  was 
indeed  ludicrously  little  and  false,  but  it  was  a 
germ.  And  at  this  aesthetic  juncture  I  was  drawn 
into  what  was  really  rather  an  extraordinary 
circle  of  incidents. 

Among  the '"Saints"  in  our  village  there  lived 
a  shoemaker  and  his  wife,  who  had  one  daughter, 
Susan  Flood.  She  was  a  flighty,  excited  young 
creature,  and  lately,  during  the  passage  of  some 
itinerary  revivalists,  she  had  been  "converted"  in 
the  noisiest  way,  with  sobs,  gasps  and  gurglings. 
When  this  crisis  passed,  she  came  with  her  parents 
to  our  meetings,  and  was  received  quietly  enough 
to  the  breaking  of  bread.  But  about  the  time 
I  speak  of,  Susan  Flood  went  up  to  London  to 
pay  a  visit  to  an  unconverted  uncle  and  aunt. 
It  was  first  whispered  amongst  us,  and  then 
openly  stated,  that  these  relations  had  taken  her 
to  the  Crystal  Palace,  where,  in  passing  through 
the  Sculpture  Gallery,  Susan's  sense  of  decency 
had  been  so  grievously  affronted,  that  she  had 
smashed  the  naked  figures  with  the  handle  of  her 

278 


FATHER   AND   SON 

parasol,  before  her  horrified  companions  could 
stop  her.  She  had,  in  fact,  run  amok  among  the 
statuary,  and  had,  to  the  intense  chagrin  of  her 
uncle  and  aunt,  very  worthy  persons,  been  ar- 
rested and  brought  before  a  magistrate,  who  dis- 
missed her  with  a  warning  to  her  relations  that 
she  had  better  be  sent  home  to  Devonshire  and 
"looked  after."  Susan  Flood's  return  to  us,  how- 
ever, was  a  triumph;  she  had  no  sense  of  having 
acted  injudiciously  or  unbecomingly;  she  was 
ready  to  recount  to  every  one,  in  vague  and  veiled 
language,  how  she  had  been  able  to  testify  for  the 
Lord  "in  the  very  temple  of  Belial,"  for  so  she 
poetically  described  the  Crystal  Palace.  She  was, 
of  course,  in  a  state  of  unbridled  hysteria,  but 
such  physical  explanations  were  not  encouraged 
amongst  us,  and  the  case  of  Susan  Flood  awakened 
a  great  deal  of  sympathy. 

There  was  held  a  meeting  of  the  elders  in  our 
drawing-room  to  discuss  it,  and  I  contrived  to 
be  present,  though  out  of  observation.  My 
Father,  while  he  recognised  the  purity  of  Susan 
Flood's  zeal,  questioned  its  wisdom.  He  noted 
that  the  statuary  was  not  her  property,  but  that 
of  the  Crystal  Palace.  Of  the  other  communi- 
cants, none,  I  think,  had  the  very  slightest  notion 
what  the  objects  were  that  Susan  had  smashed, 
or  tried  to  smash,  and  frankly  maintained  that 

279 


FATHER   AND   SON 

they  thought  her  conduct  magnificent.  As  for 
me,  I  had  gathered  by  persistent  inquiry  enough 
information  to  know  that  what  her  sacrilegious 
parasol  had  attacked  were  bodies  of  my  mysterious 
friends,  the  Greek  gods,  and  if  all  the  rest  of  the 
village  applauded  iconoclastic  Susan,  I  at  least 
would  be  ardent  on  the  other  side. 

But  I  was  conscious  that  there  was  nobody  in 
the  world  to  whom  I  could  go  for  sympathy.  If  I 
had  ever  read  " Hellas"  I  should  have  murmured 

Apollo,  Pan  and  Love, 
And  even  Olympian  Jove, 
Grew  weak,  when  killing  Susan  glared  on  them. 

On  the  day  in  question,  I  was  unable  to  endure 
the  drawing-room  meeting  to  its  close,  but,  clutch- 
ing my  volume  of  the  funereal  poets,  I  made  a 
dash  for  the  garden.  In  the  midst  of  a  mass  of 
laurels,  a  clearing  had  been  made,  where  ferns  were 
grown  and  a  garden-seat  was  placed.  There  was 
no  regular  path  to  this  asylum;  one  dived  under 
the  snake-like  boughs  of  the  laurel  and  came  up 
again  in  absolute  seclusion. 

Into  this  haunt  I  now  fled  to  meditate  about 
the  savage  godliness  of  that  vandal,  Susan  Flood. 
So  extremely  ignorant  was  I  that  I  supposed  her 
to  have  destroyed  the  originals  of  the  statues, 
marble  and  unique.    I  knew  nothing  about  plaster 

280 


FATHER   AND   SON 

casts,  and  I  thought  the  damage  (it  is  possible  that 
there  had  really  been  no  damage  whatever)  was  of 
an  irreparable  character.  I  sank  into  the  seat,  with 
the  great  wall  of  laurels  whispering  around  me, 
and  burst  into  tears.  There  was  something,  surely, 
quaint  and  pathetic,  in  the  figure  of  a  little  Plym- 
outh Brother  sitting  in  that  advanced  year  of 
grace,  weeping  bitterly  for  indignities  done  to 
Hermes  and  to  Aphrodite.  Then  I  opened  my 
book  for  consolation,  and  read  a  great  block  of 
pompous  verse  out  of  "The  Deity,"  in  the  midst 
of  which  exercise,  yielding  to  the  softness  of  the 
hot  and  aromatic  air,  I  fell  fast  asleep. 

Among  those  who  applauded  the  zeal  of  Susan 
Flood's  parasol,  the  Pagets  were  prominent. 
These  were  a  retired  Baptist  minister  and  his 
wife,  from  Exmouth,  who  had  lately  settled 
amongst  us,  and  joined  in  the  breaking  of  bread. 
Mr.  Paget  was  a  fat  old  man,  whose  round  pale 
face  was  clean-shaven,  and  who  carried  a  full 
crop  of  loose  white  hair  above  it;  his  large  lips 
were  always  moving,  whether  he  spoke  or  not. 
He  resembled,  as  I  now  perceive,  the  portraits  of 
S.  T.  Coleridge  in  age,  but  with  all  the  intellect 
left  out  of  them.  He  lived  in  a  sort  of  trance  of 
solemn  religious  despondency.  He  had  thrown 
up  his  cure  of  souls,  because  he  became  convinced 
that  he  had  committed  the  Sin  against  the  Holy 

281 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Ghost.  His  wife  was  younger  than  he,  very 
small,  very  light,  very  active,  with  black  eyes  like 
pin-pricks  at  the  base  of  an  extremely  high  and 
narrow  forehead,  bordered  with  glossy  ringlets. 
He  was  very  cross  to  her,  and  it  was  murmured 
that  "dear  Mrs.  Paget  had  often  had  to  pass 
through  the  waters  of  affliction."  They  were  very 
poor,  but  rigidly  genteel,  and  she  was  careful,  so 
far  as  she  could,  to  conceal  from  the  world  the 
caprices  of  her  poor  lunatic  husband. 

In  our  circle,  it  was  never  for  a  moment  ad- 
mitted that  Mr.  Paget  was  a  lunatic.  It  was 
said  that  he  had  gravely  sinned,  and  was  under 
the  Lord's  displeasure;  prayers  were  abundantly 
offered  up  that  he  might  be  led  back  into  the 
pathway  of  light,  and  that  the  Smiling  Face 
might  be  drawn  forth  for  him  from  behind  the 
Frowning  Providence.  When  the  man  had  an 
epileptic  seizure  in  the  High  Street,  he  was  not 
taken  to  a  hospital,  but  we  repeated  to  one 
another,  with  shaken  heads,  that  Satan,  that 
crooked  Serpent,  had  been  unloosed  for  a  season. 
Mr.  Paget  was  fond  of  talking  in  private  and  in 
public,  of  his  dreadful  spiritual  condition,  and  he 
would  drop  his  voice  while  he  spoke  of  having 
committed  the  Unpardonable  Sin,  with  a  sort  of 
shuddering  exultation,  such  as  people  sometimes 
feel  in  the  possession  of  a  very  unusual  disease. 

282 


FATHER   AND   SON 

It  might  be  thought  that  the  position  held  in 
any  community  by  persons  so  afflicted  and  ec- 
centric as  the  Pagets  would  be  very  precarious. 
But  it  was  not  so  with  us;  on  the  contrary,  they 
took  a  prominent  place  at  once.  Mr.  Paget, 
in  spite  of  his  spiritual  bankruptcy,  was  only  too 
anxious  to  help  my  Father  in  his  ministrations, 
and  used  to  beg  to  be  allowed  to  pray  and  exhort. 
In  the  latter  case  he  took  the  tone  of  a  wounded 
veteran,  who,  though  fallen  on  the  bloody  field 
himself,  could  still  encourage  younger  warriors  to 
march  forward  to  victory.  Everybody  longed  to 
know  what  the  exact  nature  had  been  of  that  sin 
against  the  Holy  Ghost  which  had  deprived  Mr. 
Paget  of  every  glimmer  of  hope  for  time  or  for 
eternity.  It  was  whispered  that  even  my  Father 
himself  was  not  precisely  acquainted  with  the 
character  of  it. 

This  mysterious  disability  clothed  Mr.  Paget 
for  us  with  a  kind  of  romance.  We  watched  him 
as  the  women  watched  Dante  in  Verona,  whis- 
pering: 

Behold  him,  how  Hell's  reek 
Has  crisped  his  hair  and  singed  his  cheek  1 

His  person  lacked,  it  is  true,  something  of  the 
dignity  of  Dante's,  for  it  was  his  caprice  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  High  Street  at  noonday  with 

283 


FATHER   AND   SON 

one  of  those  cascades  of  coloured  paper  which 
were  known  as  "ornaments  for  your  fireplace" 
slung  over  the  back  and  another  over  the  front 
of  his  body.  These  he  manufactured  for  sale,  and 
he  adopted  the  quaint  practice  of  wearing  the 
exuberant  objects  as  a  means  for  their  advertise- 
ment. 

Mrs.  Paget  had  been  accustomed  to  rule  in 
the  little  ministry  from  which  Mr.  Paget's 
celebrated  Sin  had  banished  them,  and  she  was 
inclined  to  grasp  the  sceptre  now.  She  was  the 
only  person  I  ever  met  with  who  was  not  afraid 
of  the  displeasure  of  my  Father.  She  would  fix 
her  viper-coloured  eyes  on  his,  and  say  with  a 
kind  of  gimlet  firmness,  "I  hardly  think  that  is 
the  true  interpretation,  Brother  G.",  or,  "But  let 
us  turn  to  Colossians,  and  see  what  the  Holy 
Ghost  says  there  upon  this  matter."  She  fasci- 
nated my  Father,  who  was  not  accustomed  to 
this  kind  of  interruption,  and  as  she  was  not  to  be 
softened  by  any  flattery  (such  as: — "Marvellous 
indeed,  Sister,  is  your  acquaintance  with  the 
means  of  grace!")  she  became  almost  a  terror  to 
him. 

She  abused  her  powers  by  taking  great 
liberties,  which  culminated  in  her  drawing  his 
attention  to  the  fact  that  my  poor  step-mother 
displayed  "an  overweening  love  of  dress."    The 

284 


FATHER   AND   SON 

accusation  was  perfectly  false;  my  step-mother 
was,  if  rather  richly,  always  plainly  dressed,  in 
the  sober  Quaker  mode;  almost  her  only  orna- 
ment was  a  large  carnelian  brooch,  set  in  flowered 
flat  gold.  To  this  the  envenomed  Paget  drew 
my  Father's  attention  as  "likely  to  lead  the  'little 
ones  of  the  flock'  into  temptation."  My  poor 
Father  felt  it  his  duty,  thus  directly  admonished, 
to  speak  to  my  mother.  "Do  you  not  think,  my 
Love,  that  you  should,  as  one  who  sets  an  ex- 
ample to  others,  discard  the  wearing  of  that 
gaudy  brooch?"  "One  must  fasten  one's  collar 
with  something,  I  suppose?"  "Well,  but  how 
does  Sister  Paget  fasten  her  collar?"  "Sister 
Paget,"  replied  my  mother,  stung  at  last  into  re- 
joinder, "fastens  her  collar  with  a  pin, — and  that 
is  a  thing  which  I  would  rather  die  than  do!" 

Nor  did  I  escape  the  attentions  of  this  zealous 
reformer.  Mrs.  Paget  was  good  enough  to  take 
a  great  interest  in  me,  and  she  was  not  satisfied 
with  the  way  in  which  I  was  being  brought  up. 
Her  presence  seemed  to  pervade  the  village,  and 
I  could  neither  come  in  nor  go  out  without  seeing 
her  hard  bonnet  and  her  pursed-up  lips.  She 
would  hasten  to  report  to  my  Father  that  she 
saw  me  laughing  and  talking  "with  a  lot  of  un- 
converted boys,"  these  being  the  companions  with 
whom  I  had  full  permission  to  bathe  and  boat. 

285 


FATHER   AND   SON 

She  urged  my  Father  to  complete  my  holy  voca- 
tion by  some  definite  step,  by  which  he  would 
dedicate  me  completely  to  the  Lord's  service. 
Further  schooling  she  thought  needless,  and 
merely  likely  to  foster  intellectual  pride.  Mr. 
Paget,  she  remarked,  had  troubled  very  little 
in  his  youth  about  worldly  knowledge,  and  yet 
how  blessed  he  had  been  in  the  conversion  of 
souls  until  he  had  incurred  the  displeasure  of  the 
Holy  Ghost! 

I  do  not  know  exactly  what  she  wanted  my 
Father  to  do  with  me;  perhaps  she  did  not 
know  herself;  she  was  meddlesome,  ignorant  and 
fanatical,  and  she  liked  to  fancy  that  she  was 
exercising  influence.  But  the  wonderful,  the  in- 
explicable thing  is  that  my  Father, — who,  with 
all  his  limitations,  was  so  distinguished  and  high- 
minded, — should  listen  to  her  for  a  moment, 
and  still  more  wonderful  is  it  that  he  really  al- 
lowed her,  grim  vixen  that  she  was,  to  disturb 
his  plans  and  retard  his  purposes.  I  think  the 
explanation  lay  in  the  perfectly  logical  position 
she  took  up.  My  Father  found  himself  brought 
face  to  face  at  last,  not  with  a  disciple,  but  with 
a  trained  expert  in  his  own  peculiar  scheme  of 
religion.  At  every  point  she  was  armed  with 
arguments  the  source  of  which  he  knew  and  the 
validity  of  which  he  recognised.     He  trembled 

286 


FATHER   AND   SON 

before  Mrs.  Paget  as  a  man  in  a  dream  may- 
tremble  before  a  parody  of  his  own  central  self, 
and  he  could  not  blame  her  without  laying  him- 
self open  somewhere  to  censure. 

But  my  step-mother's  instincts  were  more  prim- 
itive and  her  actions  less  wire-drawn  than  my 
Father's.  She  disliked  Mrs.  Paget  as  much  as 
one  earnest  believer  can  bring  herself  to  dislike 
a  sister  in  the  Lord.  My  step-mother  quietly 
devoted  herself  to  what  she  thought  the  best  way 
of  bringing  me  up,  and  she  did  not  propose  now 
to  be  thwarted  by  the  wife  of  a  lunatic  Baptist. 
At  this  time  I  was  a  mixture  of  childishness  and 
priggishness,  of  curious  knowledge  and  dense 
ignorance.  Certain  portions  of  my  intellect  were 
growing  with  unwholesome  activity,  while  others 
were  stunted,  or  had  never  stirred  at  all.  I  was 
like  a  plant  on  which  a  pot  has  been  placed,  with 
the  effect  that  the  centre  is  crushed  and  arrested, 
while  shoots  are  straggling  up  to  the  light  on  all 
sides.  My  Father  himself  was  aware  of  this,  and 
in  a  spasmodic  way  he  wished  to  regulate  my 
thoughts.  But  all  he  did  was  to  try  to  straighten 
the  shoots,  without  removing  the  pot  which  kept 
them  resolutely  down. 

It  was  my  mother  who  decided  that  I  was  now 
old  enough  to  go  to  boarding-school,  and  my 
Father,  having  discovered  that  an  elderly  couple 

287 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  Plymouth  Brethren  kept  an  "  academy  for 
young  gentlemen"  in  a  neighbouring  sea-port 
town, — in  the  prospectus  of  which  the  knowledge 
and  love  of  the  Lord  were  mentioned  as  occupying 
the  attention  of  the  head-master  and  his  assistants 
far  more  closely  than  any  mere  considerations  of 
worldly  tuition, — was  persuaded  to  entrust  me  to 
its  care.  He  stipulated,  however,  that  I  should 
always  come  home  from  Saturday  night  to  Mon- 
day morning,  not,  as  he  said,  that  I  might  receive 
any  carnal  indulgence,  but  that  there  might  be 
no  cessation  of  my  communion  as  a  believer  with 
the  Saints  in  our  village  on  Sundays.  To  this 
school,  therefore,  I  presently  departed,  gawky 
and  homesick,  and  the  rift  between  my  soul  and 
that  of  my  Father  widened  a  little  more. 


288 


CHAPTER  XII 

Little  boys  from  quiet,  pious  households  com- 
monly found,  in  those  days,  a  chasm  yawning  at 
the  feet  of  their  inexperience  when  they  arrived 
at  boarding-school.  But  the  fact  that  I  still  slept 
at  home  on  Saturday  and  Sunday  nights  pre- 
served me,  I  fancy,  from  many  surprises.  There 
was  a  crisis,  but  it  was  broad  and  slow  for  me. 
On  the  other  hand,  for  my  Father  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  it  was  definite  and  sharp.  The  per- 
mission to  me  to  desert  the  parental  hearth,  even 
for  five  days  in  certain  weeks,  was  tantamount, 
in  his  mind,  to  admitting  that  the  great  scheme, 
so  long  caressed,  so  passionately  fostered,  must 
in  its  primitive  bigness  be  now  dropped. 

The  Great  Scheme  (I  cannot  resist  giving  it  the 
mortuary  honour  of  capital  letters)  had  been,  as 
my  readers  know,  that  I  should  be  exclusively  and 
consecutively  dedicated,  through  the  whole  of  my 
life,  to  the  manifest  and  uninterrupted  and  uncom- 
promised  " service  of  the  Lord."    That  had  been 

289 


FATHER   AND   SON 

the  aspiration  of  my  Mother,  and  at  her  death 
she  had  bequeathed  that  desire  to  my  Father, 
like  a  dream  of  the  Promised  Land.  In  their 
ecstacy,  my  parents  had  taken  me,  as  Elkanah 
and  Hannah  had  long  ago  taken  Samuel,  from 
their  mountain-home  of  Ramathaim-Zophim  down 
to  sacrifice  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts  in  Shiloh.  They 
had  girt  me  about  with  a  linen  ephod,  and  had 
hoped  to  leave  me  there;  "as  long  as  he  liveth," 
they  had  said,  "he  shall  be  lent  unto  the  Lord." 
Doubtless  in  the  course  of  these  fourteen  years 
it  had  occasionally  flashed  upon  my  Father,  as 
he  overheard  some  speech  of  mine,  or  detected 
some  idiosyncrasy,  that  I  was  not  of  those  whose 
temperament  points  them  out  as  ultimately  fitted 
for  an  austere  life  of  religion.  What  he  hoped, 
however,  was  that  when  the  little  roughnesses  of 
childhood  were  rubbed  away,  there  would  pass 
a  deep  mellowness  over  my  soul.  He  had  a 
touching  way  of  condoning  my  faults  of  conduct, 
directly  after  reproving  them,  and  he  would 
softly  deprecate  my  frailty,  saying,  in  a  tone  of 
harrowing  tenderness,  "Are  you  not  the  child  of 
many  prayers?"  He  continued  to  think  that 
prayer,  such  passionate  importunate  prayer  as 
his,  must  prevail.  Faith  could  move  mountains; 
should  it  not  be  able  to  mould  the  little  ductile 
heart  of  a  child,  since  he  was  sure  that  his  own 

290 


FATHER   AND   SON 

faith  was  unfaltering?  He  had  yearned  and 
waited  for  a  son  who  should  be  totally  without 
human  audacities,  who  should  be  humble,  pure, 
not  troubled  by  worldly  agitations,  a  son  whose 
life  should  be  cleansed  and  straightened  from 
above,  in  custodiendo  sermones  Dei,  in  whom 
everything  should  be  sacrificed  except  the  one 
thing  needful  to  salvation. 

How  such  a  marvel  of  lowly  piety  was  to  earn 
a  living  had  never,  I  think,  occurred  to  him. 
My  Father  was  singularly  indifferent  about  money. 
Perhaps  his  notion  was  that,  totally  devoid  of 
ambitions  as  I  was  to  be,  I  should  quietly  become 
adult,  and  continue  his  ministrations  among  the 
poor  of  the  Christian  flock.  He  had  some  dim 
dream,  I  think,  of  there  being  just  enough  for  us 
all  without  my  having  to  take  up  any  business  or 
trade.  I  believe  it  was  immediately  after  my 
first  term  at  boarding-school,  that  I  was  a  silent 
but  indignant  witness  of  a  conversation  between 
my  Father  and  Mr.  Thomas  Brightwen,  my  step- 
mother's brother,  who  was  a  banker  in  one  of  the 
Eastern  Counties. 

This  question  of  "what  is  he  to  be,"  in  a 
worldly  sense,  was  being  discussed,  and  I  am  sure 
that  it  was  for  the  first  time,  at  all  events  in  my 
presence.  Mr.  Brightwen,  I  fancy,  had  been 
worked  upon  by  my  step-mother,  whose  affection 

291 


FATHER   AND   SON 

for  me  was  always  on  the  increase,  to  suggest, 
or  faintly  to  stir  the  air  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
suggesting,  a  query  about  my  future.  He  was 
childless  and  so  was  she,  and  I  think  a  kind  im- 
pulse led  them  to  "feel  the  way,"  as  it  is  called. 
I  believe  he  said  that  the  banking  business,  wisely 
and  honourably  conducted,  sometimes  led,  as  we 
know  that  it  is  apt  to  lead,  to  affluence.  To  my 
horror,  my  Father,  with  rising  emphasis,  replied 
that  "if  there  were  offered  to  his  beloved  child 
what  is  called  'an  opening'  that  would  lead  to  an 
income  of  £10,000  a  year,  and  that  would  divert 
his  thoughts  and  interest  from  the  Lord's  work, 
he  would  reject  it  on  his  child's  behalf."  Mr. 
Brightwen,  a  precise  and  polished  gentleman,  who 
evidently  never  made  an  exaggerated  statement 
in  his  life,  was,  I  think,  faintly  scandalised;  he 
soon  left  us,  and  I  do  not  recollect  his  paying 
us  a  second  visit. 

For  my  silent  part,  I  felt  very  much  like  Gehazi, 
and  I  would  fain  have  followed  after  the  banker 
if  I  had  dared  to  do  so,  into  the  night.  I 
would  have  excused  to  him  the  ardour  of  my 
Elisha,  and  I  would  have  reminded  him  of  the 
sons  of  the  prophets — "Give  me,  I  pray  thee," 
I  would  have  said,  "a  talent  of  silver  and  two 
changes  of  garments."  It  seemed  to  me  very 
hard  that  my  Father  should  dispose  of  my  possi- 

292 


FATHER   AND   SON 

bilities  of  wealth  in  so  summary  a  fashion,  but  the 
fact  that  I  did  resent  it,  and  regretted  what  I 
supposed  to  be  my  " chance,"  shows  how  far 
apart  we  had  already  swung.  My  Father,  I  am 
convinced,  thought  that  he  gave  words  to  my 
inward  instincts  when  he  repudiated  the  very 
mild  and  inconclusive  benevolence  of  his  brother- 
in-law.  But  he  certainly  did  not  do  so.  I  was 
conscious  of  a  sharp  and  instinctive  disappoint- 
ment at  having  had,  as  I  fancied,  wealth  so  near 
my  grasp,  and  at  seeing  it  all  cast  violently  into 
the  sea  of  my  Father's  scruples. 

Not  one  of  my  village  friends  attended  the 
boarding-school  to  which  I  was  now  attached, 
and  I  arrived  there  without  an  acquaintance.  I 
should  soon,  however,  have  found  a  corner  of  my 
own  if  my  Father  had  not  unluckily  stipulated 
that  I  was  not  to  sleep  in  the  dormitory  with 
boys  of  my  own  age,  but  in  the  room  occupied 
by  the  two  elder  sons  of  a  prominent  Plymouth 
Brother  whom  he  knew.  From  a  social  point  of 
view,  this  was  an  unfortunate  arrangement,  since 
these  youths  were  some  years  older  and  many 
years  riper  than  I;  the  eldest,  in  fact,  was  soon 
to  leave;  they  had  enjoyed  their  independence, 
and  they  now  greatly  resented  being  saddled  with 
the  presence  of  an  unknown  urchin.  The  suppo- 
sition had  been  that  they  would  protect  and 

293 


FATHER   AND   SON 

foster  my  religious  practices;  would  encourage 
me,  indeed,  as  my  Father  put  it,  to  approach  the 
Throne  of  Grace  with  them  at  morning  and  even- 
ing prayer.  They  made  no  pretence,  however,  to 
be  considered  godly;  they  looked  upon  me  as  an 
intruder;  and  after  a  while  the  younger,  and 
ruder,  of  them  openly  let  me  know  that  they  be- 
lieved I  had  been  put  into  their  room  to  "spy 
upon"  them:  it  had  been  a  plot,  they  knew,  be- 
tween their  father  and  mine :  and  he  darkly  warned 
me  that  I  should  suffer  if  "anything  got  out."  I 
had,  however,  no  wish  to  trouble  them,  nor  any 
faint  interest  in  their  affairs.  I  soon  discovered 
that  they  were  absorbed  in  a  silly  kind  of  amorous 
correspondence  with  the  girls  of  a  neighbouring 
academy,  but  "what  were  all  such  toys  to  me?" 
These  young  fellows,  who  ought  long  before  to 
have  left  the  school,  did  nothing  overtly  unkind 
to  me,  but  they  condemned  me  to  silence.  They 
ceased  to  address  me  except  with  an  occasional 
command.  By  reason  of  my  youth,  I  was  in 
bed  and  asleep  before  my  companions  arrived  up- 
stairs, and  in  the  morning  I  was  always  routed 
up  and  packed  about  my  business  while  they 
still  were  drowsing.  But  the  fact  that  I  had  been 
cut  off  from  my  coevals  by  night,  cut  me  off  from 
them  also  by  day — so  that  I  was  nothing  to  them, 
neither  a  boarder  nor  day  scholar,  neither  flesh, 

294 


FATHER   AND   SON 

fish  nor  fowl.  The  loneliness  of  my  life  was  ex- 
treme, and  that  I  always  went  home  on  Saturday 
afternoon  and  returned  on  Monday  morning  still 
further  checked  my  companionships  at  school. 
For  a  long  time,  round  the  outskirts  of  that  busy 
throng  of  opening  lives,  I  "  wandered  lonely  as 
a  cloud,"  and  sometimes  I  was  more  unhappy 
than  I  had  ever  been  before.  No  one,  however, 
bullied  me,  and  though  I  was  dimly  and  inde- 
finably witness  to  acts  of  uncleanness  and  cruelty, 
I  was  the  victim  of  no  such  acts  and  the  recipient 
of  no  dangerous  confidences.  I  suppose  that  my 
queer  reputation  for  sanctity,  half  dreadful,  half 
ridiculous,  surrounded  me  with  a  non-conducting 
atmosphere. 

We  are  the  victims  of  hallowed  proverbs,  and 
one  of  the  most  classic  of  these  tells  us  that  "the 
child  is  father  of  the  man."  But  in  my  case  I 
cannot  think  that  this  was  true.  In  mature  years 
I  have  always  been  gregarious,  a  lover  of  my 
kind,  dependent  upon  the  company  of  friends  for 
the  very  pulse  of  moral  life.  To  be  marooned, 
to  be  shut  up  in  a  solitary  cell,  to  inhabit  a  light- 
house, or  to  camp  alone  in  a  forest,  these  have 
always  seemed  to  me  afflictions  too  heavy  to  be 
borne,  even  in  imagination.  A  state  in  which  con- 
versation exists  not,  is  for  me  an  air  too  empty 
of  oxygen  for  my  lungs  to  breathe  it. 

295 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Yet  when  I  look  back  upon  my  days  at  boarding- 
school,  I  see  myself  unattracted  by  any  of  the  hu- 
man beings  around  me.  My  grown-up  years  are 
made  luminous  to  me  in  memory  by  the  ardent 
faces  of  my  friends,  but  I  can  scarce  recall  so  much 
as  the  names  of  more  than  two  or  three  of  my 
school-fellows.  There  is  not  one  of  them  whose 
mind  or  whose  character  made  any  lasting  impres- 
sion upon  me.  In  later  life,  I  have  been  impatient 
of  solitude,  and  afraid  of  it ;  at  school,  I  asked  for 
no  more  than  to  slip  out  of  the  hurly-burl}  and  be 
alone  with  my  reflections  and  my  fancies.  That 
magnetism  of  humanity  which  has  been  the  agony 
of  mature  years,  of  this  I  had  not  a  trace  when  I 
was  a  boy.  Of  those  fragile  loves  to  which  most 
men  look  back  with  tenderness  and  passion,  emo- 
tions to  be  explained  only  as  Montaigne  explained 
them,  "parceque  c'etait  lui,  parceque  c'etait  moi," 
I  knew  nothing.  I,  to  whom  friendship  has  since 
been  like  sunlight  and  like  sleep,  left  school  un- 
brightened  and  unrefreshed  by  commerce  with  a 
single  friend. 

If  I  had  been  clever,  I  should  doubtless  have 
attracted  the  jealousy  of  my  fellows,  but  I  was 
spared  this  by  the  mediocrity  of  my  success  in 
the  classes.  One  little  fact  I  may  mention,  be- 
cause it  exemplifies  the  advance  in  observation 
which  has  been  made  in  forty  years.    I  was  ex- 

29G 


FATHER   AND   SON 

tremely  nearsighted  and  in  consequence  was  placed 
at  a  gross  disadvantage,  by  being  unable  to  see 
the  slate  or  the  black-board  on  which  our  tasks 
were  explained.  It  seems  almost  incredible,  when 
one  reflects  upon  it,  but  during  the  whole  of  my 
school  life,  this  fact  was  never  commented  upon  or 
taken  into  account  by  a  single  person,  until  the 
Polish  lady  who  taught  us  the  elements  of  German 
and  French  drew  some  one's  attention  to  it  in  my 
sixteenth  year.  I  was  not  quick,  but  I  passed 
for  being  denser  than  I  was  because  of  the  myopic 
haze  that  enveloped  me.  But  this  is  not  an  auto- 
biography, and  with  the  cold  and  shrouded  details 
of  my  uninteresting  school  life  I  will  not  fatigue 
the  reader. 

I  was  not  content,  however,  to  be  the  cipher  that 
I  found  myself,  and  when  I  had  been  at  school  for 
about  a  year,  I  "broke  out,"  greatly,  I  think,  to 
my  own  surprise,  in  a  popular  act.  We  had  a 
young  usher  whom  we  disliked.  I  suppose,  poor 
half-starved  phthisic  lad,  that  he  was  the  most 
miserable  of  us  all.  He  was,  I  think,  unfitted  for 
the  task  which  had  been  forced  upon  him;  he  was 
fretful,  unsympathetic,  agitated.  The  school- 
house,  an  old  rambling  place,  possessed  a  long 
cellar-like  room  that  opened  from  our  general 
corridor  and  was  lighted  by  deep  windows,  care- 
fully barred,  which  looked  into  an  inner  garden. 

297 


FATHER   AND   SON 

This  vault  was  devoted  to  us  and  to  our  play- 
boxes:  by  a  tacit  law,  no  master  entered  it.  One 
evening,  just  as  dusk,  a  great  number  of  us  were 
here  when  the  bell  for  night-school  rang,  and 
many  of  us  dawdled  at  the  summons.  Mr.  B., 
tactless  in  his  anger,  bustled  in  among  us,  scolding 
in  a  shrill  voice,  and  proceeded  to  drive  us  forth. 
I  was  the  latest  to  emerge,  and  as  he  turned  away 
to  see  if  any  other  truant  might  not  be  hiding, 
I  determined  upon  action.  With  a  quick  move- 
ment, I  drew  the  door  behind  me  and  bolted  it, 
just  in  time  to  hear  the  imprisoned  usher  scream 
with  vexation.  We  boys  all  trooped  upstairs,  and 
it  is  characteristic  of  my  isolation  that  I  had  not 
one  "chum"  to  whom  I  could  confide  my  feat. 

That  Mr.  B.  had  been  shut  in  became,  how- 
ever, almost  instantly  known,  and  the  night-class, 
usually  so  unruly,  was  awed  by  the  event  into 
exemplary  decorum.  There,  with  no  master  near 
us,  in  a  silence  rarely  broken  by  a  giggle  or  a  cat- 
call, we  sat  diligently  working,  or  pretending  to 
work.  Through  my  brain,  as  I  hung  over  my 
book,  a  thousand  new  thoughts  began  to  surge. 
I  was  the  liberator,  the  tyrannicide;  I  had  freed 
all  my  fellows  from  the  odious  oppressor.  Surely, 
when  they  learned  that  it  was  I,  they  would 
cluster  round  me ;  surely,  now,  I  should  be  some- 
body in  the  school-life,  no  longer  a  mere  trotting 

298 


FATHER   AND   SON 

shadow  or  invisible  presence.  The  interval  seemed 
long;  at  length  Mr.  B.  was  released  by  a  servant, 
and  he  came  up  into  the  school-room  to  find  us  in 
that  ominous  condition  of  suspense. 

At  first  he  said  nothing.  He  sank  upon  a  chair 
in  a  half-fainting  attitude,  while  he  pressed  his 
hand  to  his  side ;  his  distress  and  silence  redoubled 
the  boys'  surprise,  and  filled  me  with  something 
like  remorse.  For  the  first  time,  I  reflected  that 
he  was  human,  that  perhaps  he  suffered.  He  rose 
presently  and  took  a  slate,  upon  which  he  wrote 
two  questions:  "Did  you  do  it?"  "Do  you  know 
who  did?"  and  these  he  propounded  to  each  boy 
in  rotation.  The  prompt,  redoubled  "No"  in 
every  case  seemed  to  pile  up  his  despair. 

One  of  the  last  to  whom  he  held,  in  silence, 
the  trembling  slate  was  the  perpetrator.  As  I 
saw  the  moment  approach,  an  unspeakable  tim- 
idity swept  over  me.  I  reflected  that  no  one  had 
seen  me,  that  no  one  could  accuse  me.  Nothing 
could  be  easier  or  safer  than  to  deny,  nothing 
more  perplexing  to  the  enemy,  nothing  less  peril- 
ous for  the  culprit.  A  flood  of  plausible  reasons 
invaded  my  brain;  I  seemed  to  see  this  to  be  a 
case  in  which  to  tell  the  truth  would  be  not 
merely  foolish,  it  would  be  wrong.  Yet  when  the 
usher  stood  before  me,  holding  the  slate  out  in 
his  white  and  shaking  hand,  I  seized  the  pencil, 

299 


FATHER   AND   SON 

and,  ignoring  the  first  question,  I  wrote  "Yes" 
firmly  against  the  second.  I  suppose  that  the 
ambiguity  of  this  action  puzzled  Mr.  B.  He 
pressed  me  to  answer:  "Did  you  do  it?"  but  to 
that  I  was  obstinately  dumb;  and  away  I  was 
hurried  to  an  empty  bed-room,  where  for  the  whole 
of  that  night  and  the  next  day  I  was  held  a  pris- 
oner, visited  at  intervals  by  the  head-master  and 
other  inquisitorial  persons,  until  I  was  gradually 
persuaded  to  make  a  full  confession  and  apology. 
This  absurd  little  incident  had  one  effect,  it 
revealed  me  to  my  school-fellows  as  an  existence. 
From  that  time  forth  I  lay  no  longer  under  the 
stigma  of  invisibility ;  I  had  produced  my  material 
shape  and  had  thrown  my  shadow  for  a  moment 
into  a  legend.  But,  in  other  respects,  things  went 
on  much  as  before:  curiously  uninfluenced  by 
my  surroundings,  I  in  my  turn  failed  to  exercise 
influence,  and  my  practical  isolation  was  no  less 
than  it  had  been  before.  It  was  thus  that  it  came 
about  that  my  social  memories  of  my  boarding- 
school  life  are  monotonous  and  vague.  It  was  a 
period  during  which,  as  it  appears  to  me  now  on 
looking  back,  the  stream  of  my  spiritual  nature 
spread  out  into  a  shallow  pool  which  was  almost 
stagnant.  I  was  labouring  to  gain  those  elements 
of  conventional  knowledge,  which  had,  in  many 
cases,  up  to  that  time  been  singularly  lacking. 

300 


FATHER   AND   SON 

But  my  brain  was  starved,  and  my  intellectual 
perceptions  were  veiled.  Elder  persons  who  in 
later  years  would  speak  to  me  frankly  of  my 
school-days  assured  me  that,  while  I  had  often 
struck  them  as  a  smart  and  quaint  and  even 
interesting  child,  all  promise  seemed  to  fade  out  of 
me  as  a  school-boy,  and  that  those  who  were  most 
inclined  to  be  indulgent  gave  up  the  hope  that  I 
should  prove  a  man  in  a  way  remarkable.  This  was 
particularly  the  case  with  the  most  indulgent  of 
my  protectors,  my  refined  and  gentle  step-mother. 
As  this  record  can,  however,  have  no  value  that 
is  not  based  on  its  rigorous  adhesion  to  the  truth, 
I  am  bound  to  say  that  the  dreariness  and  sterility 
of  my  school-life  were  more  apparent  than  real. 
I  was  pursuing  certain  lines  of  moral  and  mental 
development  all  the  time,  and  if  my  school-mas- 
ters and  my  school-fellows  combined  in  thinking 
me  so  dull,  I  will  display  a  tardy  touch  of  "  proper 
spirit"  and  ask  whether  it  may  not  partly  have 
been  because  they  were  themselves  so  common- 
place. I  think  that  if  some  drops  of  sympathy, 
that  magic  dew  of  Paradise,  had  fallen  upon  my 
desert,  it  might  have  blossomed  like  the  rose,  or 
at  all  events  like  that  chimerical  flower,  the  Rose 
of  Jericho.  As  it  was,  the  conventionality  around 
me,  the  intellectual  drought,  gave  me  no  oppor- 
tunity of  outward  growth.    They  did  not  destroy, 

301 


FATHER   AND   SON 

but  they  cooped  up,  and  rendered  slow  and  in- 
efficient, that  internal  life  which  continued,  as  I 
have  said,  to  live  on  unseen.  This  took  the  form 
of  dreams  and  speculations,  in  the  course  of  which 
I  went  through  many  tortuous  processes  of  the 
mind,  the  actual  aims  of  which  were  futile,  al- 
though the  movements  themselves  were  useful. 
If  I  may  more  minutely  define  my  meaning,  I 
would  say  that  in  my  school-days,  without  pos- 
sessing thoughts,  I  yet  prepared  my  mind  for 
thinking,  and  learned  how  to  think. 

The  great  subject  of  my  curiosity  at  this  time 
was  words,  as  instruments  of  expression.  I  was 
incessant  in  adding  to  my  vocabulary,  and  in 
finding  accurate  and  individual  terms  for  things. 
Here,  too,  the  exercise  preceded  the  employment, 
since  I  was  busy  providing  myself  with  words 
before  I  had  any  idea  to  express  with  them. 
When  I  read  Shakespeare  and  came  upon  the 
passage  in  which  Prospero  tells  Caliban  that  he 
had  no  thoughts  till  his  master  taught  him  words, 
I  remember  starting  with  amazement  at  the  poet's 
intuition,  for  such  a  Caliban  had  I  been : 

I  pitied  thee, 
Took  pains  to  make  thee  speak,  taught  thee  each  hour 
One  thing  or  other,  when  thou  didst  not,  savage, 
Know  thine  own  meaning,  but  wouldst  gabble,  like 
A  thing  most  brutish;  I  endow'd  thy  purposes 
With  words  that  made  them  known. 
302 


FATHER   AND   SON 

For  my  Prosperos  I  sought  vaguely  in  such  books 
as  I  had  access  to,  and  I  was  conscious  that  as 
the  inevitable  word  seized  hold  of  me,  with  it  out 
of  the  darkness  into  strong  light  came  the  image 
and  the  idea. 

My  Father  possessed  a  copy  of  Bailey's  "  Ety- 
mological Dictionary,"  a  book  published  early  in 
the  eighteenth  century.  Over  this  I  would  pore 
for  hours,  playing  with  the  words  in  a  fashion 
which  I  can  no  longer  reconstruct,  and  delighting 
in  the  savour  of  the  rich,  old-fashioned  country 
phrases.  My  Father  finding  me  thus  employed, 
fell  to  wondering  at  the  nature  of  my  pursuit,  and 
I  could  offer  him,  indeed,  no  very  intelligible  ex- 
planation of  it.  He  urged  me  to  give  up  such 
idleness,  and  to  make  practical  use  of  language. 
For  this  purpose  he  conceived  an  exercise  which  he 
obliged  me  to  adopt,  although  it  was  hateful  to 
me.  He  sent  me  forth,  it  might  be,  up  the  lane 
to  Warbury  Hill  and  round  home  by  the  copses; 
or  else  down  one  chine  to  the  sea  and  along  the 
shingle  to  the  next  cutting  in  the  cliff,  and  so 
back  by  way  of  the  village;  and  he  desired  me  to 
put  down,  in  language  as  full  as  I  could,  all  that 
I  had  seen  in  each  excursion.  As  I  have  said, 
this  practice  was  detestable  and  irksome  to  me, 
but,  as  I  look  back,  I  am  inclined  to  believe  it 
to  have  been  the  most  salutary,  the  most  practical 

303 


FATHER   AND   SON 

piece  of  training  which  my  Father  ever  gave  me. 
It  forced  me  to  observe  sharply  and  clearly,  to 
form  visual  impressions,  to  retain  them  in  the 
brain,  and  to  clothe  them  in  punctilious  and 
accurate  language. 

It  was  in  my  fifteenth  year  that  I  became  again, 
this  time  intelligently,  acquainted  with  Shake- 
speare. I  got  hold  of  a  single  play,  The  Tempest, 
in  a  school  edition,  prepared,  I  suppose,  for  one 
of  the  university  examinations  which  were  then 
being  instituted  in  the  provinces.  This  I  read 
through  and  through,  not  disdaining  the  help  of 
the  notes,  and  revelling  in  the  glossary.  I  studied 
The  Tempest  as  I  had  hitherto  studied  no  classic 
work,  and  it  filled  my  whole  being  with  music  and 
romance.  This  book  was  my  own  hoarded  pos- 
session; the  rest  of  Shakespeare's  works  were  be- 
yond my  hopes.  But  gradually  I  contrived  to 
borrow  a  volume  here  and  a  volume  there.  I 
completed  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  read  Cymbe- 
line,  Julius  Ccesar  and  Much  Ado;  most  of  the 
others,  I  think,  remained  closed  to  me  for  a  long 
time.  But  these  were  enough  to  steep  my  horizon 
with  all  the  colours  of  sunrise.  It  was  due,  no 
doubt,  to  my  bringing  up,  that  the  plays  never 
appealed  to  me  as  bounded  by  the  exigencies  of 
a  stage  or  played  by  actors.  The  images  they 
raised  in  my  mind  were  of  real  people  moving  in 

304 


FATHER   AND   SON 

the  open  air,  and  uttering  in  the  natural  play  of 
life  sentiments  that  were  clothed  in  the  most  lovely 
and  yet,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  the  most  obvious 
and  the  most  inevitable  language. 

It  was  while  I  was  thus  under  the  full  spell  of 
the  Shakespearean  necromancy  that  a  significant 
event  occurred.  My  Father  took  me  up  to  Lon- 
don for  the  first  time  since  my  infancy.  Our  visit 
was  one  of  a  few  days  only,  and  its  purpose  was 
that  we  might  take  part  in  some  enormous  Evan- 
gelical conference.  We  stayed  in  a  dark  hotel  off 
the  Strand,  where  I  found  the  noise  by  day  and 
night  very  afflicting.  When  we  were  not  at  the 
conference,  I  spent  long  hours,  among  crumbs  and 
blue-bottle  flies,  in  the  coffee-room  of  this  hotel, 
my  Father  being  busy  at  the  British  Museum  and 
the  Royal  Society.  The  conference  was  held  in 
an  immense  hall,  somewhere  in  the  north  of  Lon- 
don. I  remember  my  short-sighted  sense  of  the 
terrible  vastness  of  the  crowd,  with  rings  on  rings 
of  dim  white  faces  fading  in  the  fog.  My  Father, 
as  a  privileged  visitor,  was  obliged  with  seats  on 
the  platform,  and  we  were  in  the  heart  of  the 
first  really  large  assemblage  of  persons  that  I  had 
ever  seen. 

The  interminable  ritual  of  prayers,  hymns  and 
addresses  left  no  impression  on  my  memory,  but 
my  attention  was  suddenly  stung  into  life  by  a 

305 


FATHER   AND   SON 

remark.  An  elderly  man,  fat  and  greasy,  with 
a  voice  like  a  bassoon,  and  an  imperturbable  as- 
surance, was  denouncing  the  spread  of  infidelity, 
and  the  lukewarmness  of  professing  Christians, 
who  refrained  from  battling  the  wickedness  at 
their  doors.  They  were  like  the  Laodiceans, 
whom  the  angel  of  the  Apocalypse  spewed  out 
of  his  mouth.  For  instance,  who,  the  orator 
asked,  is  now  rising  to  check  the  outburst  of 
idolatry  in  our  midst?  "At  this  very  moment," 
he  went  on,  "there  is  proceeding,  unreproved, 
a  blasphemous  celebration  of  the  birth  of  Shake- 
speare, a  lost  soul  now  suffering  for  his  sins  in 
hell!"  My  sensation  was  that  of  one  who  has 
suddenly  been  struck  on  the  head ;  stars  and  sparks 
beat  round  me.  If  some  person  I  loved  had  been 
grossly  insulted  in  my  presence,  I  could  not  have 
felt  more  powerless  in  anguish.  No  one  in  that 
vast  audience  raised  a  word  of  protest,  and  my 
spirits  fell  to  their  nadir.  This,  be  it  remarked, 
was  the  earliest  intimation  that  had  reached  me 
of  the  tercentenary  of  the  Birth  at  Stratford,  and 
I  had  not  the  least  idea  what  could  have  pro- 
voked the  outburst  of  outraged  godliness. 

But  Shakespeare  was  certainly  in  the  air.  When 
we  returned  to  the  hotel  that  noon,  my  Father 
of  his  own  accord  reverted  to  the  subject.  I  held 
my  breath,  prepared  to  endure  fresh  torment. 

306 


FATHER   AND   SON 

What  he  said,  however,  surprised  and  relieved 
me.  "Brother  So-and-so,"  he  remarked,  "was 
not  in  my  judgment  justified  in  saying  what  he 
did.  The  uncovenanted  mercies  of  God  are  not 
revealed  to  us.  Before  so  rashly  speaking  of 
Shakespeare  as  'a  lost  soul  in  hell/  he  should  have 
remembered  how  little  we  know  of  the  poet's 
history.  The  light  of  salvation  was  widely  dis- 
seminated in  the  land  during  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  we  cannot  know  that  Shakespeare 
did  not  accept  the  atonement  of  Christ  in  simple 
faith  before  he  came  to  die."  The  concession 
will  to-day  seem  meagre  to  gay  and  worldly 
spirits,  but  words  cannot  express  how  comfort- 
able it  was  to  me.  I  gazed  at  my  Father  with 
loving  eyes  across  the  cheese  and  celery,  and  if 
the  waiter  had  not  been  present  I  believe  I  might 
have  hugged  him  in  my  arms. 

This  anecdote  may  serve  to  illustrate  the  atti- 
tude of  my  conscience,  at  this  time,  with  regard 
to  theology.  I  was  not  consciously  in  any  re- 
volt against  the  strict  faith  in  which  I  had  been 
brought  up,  but  I  could  not  fail  to  be  aware  of 
the  fact  that  literature  tempted  me  to  stray  up 
innumerable  paths  which  meandered  in  directions 
at  right  angles  to  that  direct  strait  way  which 
leadeth  to  salvation.  I  fancied,  if  I  may  pursue 
the  image,  that  I  was  still  safe  up  these  pleasant 

307 


FATHER   AND   SON 

lanes  if  I  did  not  stray  far  enough  to  lose  sight  of 
the  main  road.  If,  for  instance,  it  had  been  quite 
certain  that  Shakespeare  had  been  irrecoverably 
damnable  and  damned,  it  would  scarcely  have 
been  possible  for  me  to  have  justified  myself  in 
going  on  reading  Cymbeline.  One  who  broke 
bread  with  the  Saints  every  Sunday  morning, 
who  "took  a  class"  at  Sunday  school,  who  made, 
as  my  Father  loved  to  remind  me,  a  public  weekly 
confession  of  his  willingness  to  bear  the  Cross  of 
Christ,  such  an  one  could  hardly,  however  be- 
wildering and  torturing  the  thought,  continue  to 
admire  a  lost  soul.  But  that  happy  possibility 
of  an  ultimate  repentance,  how  it  eased  me!  I 
could  always  console  myself  with  the  belief  that 
when  Shakespeare  wrote  any  passage  of  intoxi- 
cating beauty,  it  was  just  then  that  he  was  be- 
ginning to  breathe  the  rapture  that  faith  in 
Christ  brings  to  the  anointed  soul.  And  it  was 
with  a  like  casuistry  that  I  condoned  my  other 
intellectual  and  personal  pleasures. 

My  Father  continued  to  be  under  the  im- 
pression that  my  boarding-school,  which  he  never 
again  visited  after  originally  leaving  me  there, 
was  conducted  upon  the  same  principles  as  his 
own  household.  I  was  frequently  tempted  to 
enlighten  him,  but  I  never  found  the  courage  to 
do  so.    As  a  matter  of  fact  the  piety  of  the  es- 

308 


FATHER   AND   SON 

tablishment,  which  collected  to  it  the  sons  of  a 
large  number  of  evangelically  minded  parents 
throughout  that  part  of  the  country,  resided 
mainly  in  the  prospectus.  It  proceeded  no  further 
than  the  practice  of  reading  the  Bible  aloud,  each 
boy  in  successive  order  one  verse,  in  the  early  morn- 
ing before  breakfast.  There  was  no  selection  and 
no  exposition;  where  the  last  boy  sat,  there  the 
day's  reading  ended,  even  if  it  were  in  the  middle 
of  a  sentence,  and  there  it  began  next  morning. 

Such  reading  of  "the  chapter"  was  followed  by 
a  long  dry  prayer.  I  do  not  know  that  this  morn- 
ing service  would  appear  more  perfunctory  than 
usual  to  other  boys,  but  it  astounded  and  dis- 
gusted me,  accustomed  as  I  was  to  the  minis- 
trations at  home,  where  my  Father  read  "the 
word  of  God"  in  a  loud  passionate  voice,  with 
dramatic  emphasis,  pausing  for  commentary  and 
paraphrase,  and  treating  every  phrase  as  if  it 
were  part  of  a  personal  message  or  of  thrilling 
family  history.  At  school,  "morning  prayer" 
was  a  dreary,  unintelligible  exercise,  and  with 
this  piece  of  mumbo-jumbo,  religion  for  the  day 
began  and  ended.  The  discretion  of  little  boys 
is  extraordinary.  I  am  quite  certain  no  one  of 
us  ever  revealed  this  fact  to  our  godly  parents  at 
home. 

If  any  one  was  to  do  this,  it  was  of  course  I 
309 


FATHER   AND   SON 

who  should  first  of  all  have  "testified."  But  I  had 
grown  cautious  about  making  confidences.  One 
never  knew  how  awkwardly  they  might  develop 
or  to  what  disturbing  excesses  of  zeal  they  might 
precipitously  lead.  I  was  on  my  guard  against 
my  Father,  who  was,  all  the  time,  only  too  openly 
yearning  that  I  should  approach  him  for  help,  for 
comfort,  for  ghostly  counsel.  Still  "delicate," 
though  steadily  gaining  in  solidity  of  constitution, 
I  was  liable  to  severe  chills  and  to  fugitive  neu- 
ralgic pangs.  My  Father  was,  almost  maddeningly, 
desirous  that  these  afflictions  should  be  sanctified 
to  me,  and  it  was  in  my  bed,  often  when  I  was 
much  bowed  in  spirit  by  indisposition,  that  he 
used  to  triumph  over  me  most  pitilessly.  He  re- 
tained the  singular  superstition,  amazing  in  a 
man  of  scientific  knowledge  and  long  human  ex- 
perience, that  all  pains  and  ailments  were  directly 
sent  by  the  Lord  in  chastisement  for  some  definite 
fault,  and  not  in  relation  to  any  physical  cause. 
The  result  was  sometimes  quite  startling,  and  in 
particular  I  recollect  that  my  step-mother  and  I 
exchanged  impressions  of  astonishment  at  my 
Father's  action  when  Mrs.  Goodyer,  who  was 
one  of  the  "Saints"  and  the  wife  of  a  young 
journeyman  cobbler,  broke  her  leg.  My  Father, 
puzzled  for  an  instant  as  to  the  meaning  of 
this  accident,  since  Mrs.  Goodyer  was  the  gen- 

310 


FATHER   AND   SON 

tlest  and  most  inoffensive  of  our  church  members, 
decided  that  it  must  be  because  she  had  made 
an  idol  of  her  husband,  and  he  reduced  the  poor 
thing  to  tears  by  standing  at  her  bed-side  and  im- 
ploring the  Holy  Spirit  to  bring  this  sin  home 
to  her  conscience. 

When,  therefore,  I  was  ill  at  home  with  one  of 
my  trifling  disorders,  the  problem  of  my  spiritual 
state  always  pressed  violently  upon  my  Father, 
and  this  caused  me  no  little  mental  uneasiness. 
He  would  appear  at  my  bed-side,  with  solemn 
solicitude,  and  sinking  on  his  knees  would  ear- 
nestly pray  aloud  that  the  purpose  of  the  Lord 
in  sending  me  this  affliction  might  graciously  be 
made  plain  to  me,  and  then,  rising  and  stand- 
ing by  my  pillow,  he  would  put  me  through  a 
searching  spiritual  inquiry  as  to  the  fault  which 
was  thus  divinely  indicated  to  me  as  observed 
and  reprobated  on  high. 

It  was  not  on  points  of  moral  behaviour 
that  he  thus  cross-examined  me;  I  think  he  dis- 
dained such  ignoble  game  as  that.  But  un- 
certainties of  doctrine,  relinquishment  of  faith 
in  the  purity  of  this  dogma  or  of  that,  lukewarm 
zeal  in  " taking  up  the  cross  of  Christ,"  growth 
of  intellectual  pride — such  were  the  insidious  of- 
fences in  consequence  of  which,  as  he  supposed, 
the  cold  in  the  head  or  the  toothache  had  been  sent 

311 


FATHER   AND   SON 

as  heavenly  messengers  to  recall  my  straggling 
conscience  to  its  plain  path  of  duty. 

What  made  me  very  uncomfortable  on  these  oc- 
casions was  my  consciousness  that  confinement  to 
bed  was  hardly  an  affliction  at  all.  It  kept  me 
from  the  boredom  of  school,  in  a  fire-lit  bed-room 
at  home,  with  my  pretty,  smiling  step-mother 
lavishing  luxurious  attendance  upon  me,  and  it 
gave  me  long,  unbroken  days  for  reading.  I  was 
awkwardly  aware  that  I  simply  had  not  the 
effrontery  to  " approach  the  Throne  of  Grace" 
with  a  request  to  know  for  what  sin  I  was  con- 
demned to  such  a  very  pleasant  disposition  of  my 
hours. 

The  current  of  my  life  ran,  during  my  school- 
days, most  merrily  and  fully  in  the  holidays,  when 
I  resumed  my  out-door  exercises  with  those 
friends  in  the  village  of  whom  I  have  spoken  ear- 
lier. I  think  they  were  more  refined  and  better 
bred  than  any  of  my  school-fellows,  at  all  events 
it  was  among  these  homely  companions  alone  that 
I  continued  to  form  congenial  and  sympathetic 
relations.  In  one  of  these  boys — one  of  whom  I 
have  heard  or  seen  nothing  now  for  nearly  a  gen- 
eration— I  found  tastes  singularly  parallel  to  my 
own,  and  we  scoured  the  horizon  in  search  of 
books  in  prose  and  verse,  but  particularly  in  verse. 

As  I  grew  stronger  in  muscle,  I  was  capable 
312 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  adding  considerably  to  my  income  by  an 
exercise  of  my  legs.  I  was  allowed  money  for 
the  railway  ticket  between  the  town  where  the 
school  lay  and  the  station  nearest  to  my  home. 
But,  if  I  chose  to  walk  six  or  seven  miles  along  the 
coast,  thus  more  than  halving  the  distance  by 
rail  from  school-house  to  home,  I  might  spend  as 
pocket-money  the  railway  fare  I  thus  saved. 
Such  considerable  sums  I  fostered  in  order  to 
buy  with  them  editions  of  the  poets.  These 
were  not  in  those  days,  as  they  are  now,  at  the 
beck  and  call  of  every  purse,  and  the  attainment 
of  each  little  masterpiece  was  a  separate  triumph. 
In  particular  I  shall  never  forget  the  excitement 
of  reaching  at  last  the  exorbitant  price  the 
bookseller  asked  for  the  only,  although  imperfect, 
edition  of  the  poems  of  S.  T.  Coleridge.  At  last 
I  could  meet  his  demand,  and  my  friend  and  I 
went  down  to  consummate  the  solemn  purchase. 
Coming  away  with  our  treasure,  we  read  aloud 
from  the  orange-coloured  volume  in  turns,  as  we 
strolled  along,  until  at  last  we  sat  down  on  the 
bulging  root  of  an  elm-tree  in  a  secluded  lane. 
Here  we  stayed,  in  a  sort  of  poetical  Nirvana, 
reading,  reading,  forgetting  the  passage  of  time, 
until  the  hour  of  our  neglected  mid-day  meal  was 
a  long  while  past,  and  we  had  to  hurry  home  to 
bread  and  cheese  and  a  scolding. 

313 


FATHER   AND   SON 

There  was  occasionally  some  trouble  about  my 
reading,  but  now  not  much  nor  often.  I  was 
rather  adroit,  and  careful  not  to  bring  promi- 
nently into  sight  anything  of  a  literary  kind  which 
could  become  a  stone  of  stumbling.  But,  when 
I  was  nearly  sixteen,  I  made  a  purchase  which 
brought  me  into  sad  trouble,  and  was  the  cause 
of  a  permanent  wound  to  my  self-respect.  I  had 
long  coveted  in  the  book-shop  window  a  volume 
in  which  the  poetical  works  of  Ben  Jonson  and 
Christopher  Marlowe  were  said  to  be  combined. 
This  I  bought  at  length,  and  I  carried  it  with  me 
to  devour  as  I  trod  the  desolate  road  that  brought 
me  along  the  edge  of  the  cliff  on  Saturday  after- 
noons. Ben  Jonson  I  could  make  nothing  of,  but 
when  I  turned  to  "Hero  and  Leander,"  I  was 
lifted  to  a  heaven  of  passion  and  music.  It  was 
a  marvellous  revelation  of  romantic  beauty  to  me, 
and  as  I  paced  along  that  lonely  and  exquisite 
high-way,  with  its  immense  command  of  the  sea, 
and  its  peeps  every  now  and  then,  through  slant- 
ing thickets,  far  down  to  the  snow-white  shingle, 
I  lifted  up  my  voice,  singing  the  verses,  as  I 
strolled  along: 

Buskins  of  shells,  all  silver'd,  used  she, 
And  branch'd  with  blushing  coral  to  the  knee, 
Where  sparrows  perched,  of  hollow  pearl  and  gold, 
Such  as  the  world  would  wonder  to  behold, — 
314 


FATHER   AND   SON 

so  it  went  on,  and  I  thought  I  had  never  read 
anything  so  lovely, — 


Amorous  Leander,  beautiful  and  young, 
Whose  tragedy  divine  Musseus  sung, — 


it  all  seemed  to  my  fancy  intoxicating  beyond  any- 
thing I  had  ever  even  dreamed  of,  since  I  had  not 
yet  become  acquainted  with  any  of  the  modern 
romanticists. 

When  I  reached  home,  tired  out  with  enthu- 
siasm and  exercise,  I  must  needs,  so  soon  as  I 
had  eaten,  search  out  my  step-mother  that  she 
might  be  a  partner  in  my  joys.  It  is  remarkable 
to  me  now,  and  a  disconcerting  proof  of  my  still 
almost  infantile  innocence,  that,  having  induced 
her  to  settle  to  her  knitting  embroidery,  I  began, 
without  hesitation,  to  read  Marlowe's  voluptuous 
poem  aloud  to  that  blameless  Christian  gentle- 
woman. We  got  on  very  well  in  the  opening,  but 
at  the  episode  of  Cupid's  pining,  my  step-mother's 
needles  began  nervously  to  clash,  and  when  we 
launched  on  the  description  of  Leander's  person, 
she  interrupted  me  by  saying,  rather  sharply, 
"Give  me  that  book,  please,  I  should  like  to 
read  the  rest  to  myself."  I  resigned  the  reading 
in  amazement,  and  was  stupefied  to  see  her  take 
the  volume,  shut  it  with  a  snap  and  hide  it  under 

315 


FATHER   AND   SON 

her  needlework.  Nor  could  I  extract  from  her 
another  word  on  the  subject. 

The  matter  passed  from  my  mind,  and  I  was 
therefore  extremely  alarmed  when,  soon  after 
my  going  to  bed  that  night,  my  Father  came  into 
my  room  with  a  pale  face  and  burning  eyes,  the 
prey  of  violent  perturbation.  He  set  down  the 
candle  and  stood  by  the  bed,  and  it  was  some  time 
before  he  could  resolve  on  a  form  of  speech.  Then 
he  denounced  me,  in  unmeasured  terms,  for  bring- 
ing into  the  house,  for  possessing  at  all  or  read- 
ing, so  abominable  a  book.  He  explained  that 
my  step-mother  had  shown  it  to  him,  and  that 
he  had  looked  through  it,  and  had  burned  it. 
The  sentence  in  his  tirade  which  principally  af- 
fected me  was  this.  He  said,  "You  will  soon  be 
leaving  us,  and  going  up  to  lodgings  in  London, 
and  if  your  landlady  should  come  into  your  room, 
and  find  such  a  book  lying  about,  she  would  im- 
mediately set  you  down  as  a  profligate."  I  did 
not  understand  this  at  all,  and  it  seems  to  me 
now  that  the  fact  that  I  had  so  very  simply  and 
childishly  volunteered  to  read  the  verses  to  my 
step-mother  should  have  proved  to  my  Father  that 
I  connected  it  with  no  ideas  of  an  immoral  nature. 

I  was  greatly  wounded  and  offended,  but  my 
indignation  was  smothered  up  in  the  alarm  and 
excitement  which  followed  the  news  that  I  was  to 

316 


FATHER   AND   SON 

go  up  to  live  in  lodgings,  and,  as  it  was  evident, 
alone,  in  London.  Of  this  no  hint  or  whisper  had 
previously  reached  me.  On  reflection,  I  can  but 
admit  that  my  Father,  who  was  little  accustomed 
to  seventeenth-century  literature,  must  have 
come  across  some  startling  exposures  in  Ben  Jon- 
son,  and  probably  never  reached  "Hero  and  Le- 
ander"  at  all.  The  artistic  effect  of  such  poetry 
on  an  innocently  pagan  mind  did  not  come  within 
the  circle  of  his  experience.  He  judged  the  out- 
spoken Elizabethan  poets,  no  doubt,  very  much 
in  the  spirit  of  the  problematical  landlady. 

Of  the  world  outside,  of  the  dim  wild  whirlpool 
of  London,  I  was  much  afraid,  but  I  was  now 
ready  to  be  willing  to  leave  the  narrow  Devonshire 
circle,  to  see  the  last  of  the  red  mud,  of  the  dreary 
village  street,  of  the  plethoric  elders,  to  hear  the 
last  of  the  drawling  voices  of  the  "Saints."  Yet 
I  had  a  great  difficulty  in  persuading  myself  that 
I  could  ever  be  happy  away  from  home,  and  again 
I  compared  my  lot  with  that  of  one  of  the  speckled 
soldier-crabs  that  roamed  about  in  my  Father's 
aquarium,  dragging  after  them  great  whorl- 
shells.  They,  if  by  chance  they  were  turned 
out  of  their  whelk-habitations,  trailed  about  a 
pale  soft  body  in  search  of  another  house,  visibly 
broken-hearted  and  the  victims  of  every  ignomin- 
ious accident. 

317 


FATHER   AND   SON 

My  spirits  were  divided  pathetically  between 
the  wish  to  stay  on,  a  guarded  child,  and  to  pro- 
ceed into  the  world  a  budding  man,  and,  in  my 
utter  ignorance,  I  sought  in  vain  to  conjure  up 
what  my  immediate  future  would  be.  My  Father 
threw  no  light  upon  the  subject,  for  he  had  not 
formed  any  definite  idea  of  what  I  could  possibly 
do  to  earn  an  honest  living.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
I  was  to  stay  another  year  at  school  and  home. 

This  last  year  of  my  boyish  life  passed  rapidly 
and  pleasantly.  My  sluggish  brain  waked  up 
at  last  and  I  was  able  to  study  with  application. 
In  the  public  examinations  I  did  pretty  well, 
and  may  even  have  been  thought  something  of  a 
credit  to  the  school.  Yet  I  formed  no  close 
associations,  and  I  even  contrived  to  avoid,  as 
I  had  afterwards  occasion  to  regret,  such  lessons 
as  were  distasteful  to  me,  and  therefore  particu- 
larly valuable.  But  I  read  with  unchecked 
voracity,  and  in  several  curious  directions. 
Shakespeare  now  passed  into  my  possession 
entire,  in  the  shape  of  a  reprint  more  hideous 
and  more  offensive  to  the  eyesight  than  would 
in  these  days  appear  conceivable.  I  made  ac- 
quaintance with  Keats,  who  entirely  captivated 
me;  with  Shelley,  whose  " Queen  Mab"  at  first 
repelled  me  from  the  threshold  of  his  edifice; 
and  with  Wordsworth,  for  the  exercise  of  whose 

318 


FATHER   AND   SON 

magic  I  was  still  far  too  young.  My  Father  pre- 
sented me  with  the  entire  bulk  of  Southey's  stony 
verse,  which  I  found  it  impossible  to  penetrate, 
but  my  step-mother  lent  me  "The  Golden  Treas- 
ury,''  in  which  almost  everything  seemed  ex- 
quisite. 

Upon  this  extension  of  my  intellectual  powers, 
however,  there  did  not  follow  any  spirit  of  doubt 
or  hostility  to  the  faith.  On  the  contrary,  at 
first  there  came  a  considerable  quickening  of 
fervour.  My  prayers  became  less  frigid  and  me- 
chanical; I  no  longer  avoided  as  far  as  possible 
the  contemplation  of  religious  ideas;  I  began  to 
search  the  Scriptures  for  myself  with  interest  and 
sympathy,  if  scarcely  with  ardour.  I  began  to 
perceive,  without  animosity,  the  strange  narrow- 
ness of  my  Father's  system,  which  seemed  to 
take  into  consideration  only  a  selected  circle  of 
persons,  a  group  of  disciples  peculiarly  illumin- 
ated, and  to  have  no  message  whatever  for  the 
wider  Christian  community. 

On  this  subject  I  had  some  instructive  conver- 
sations with  my  Father,  whom  I  found  not  re- 
luctant to  have  his  convictions  pushed  to  their 
logical  extremity.  He  did  not  wish  to  judge,  he 
protested;  but  he  could  not  admit  that  a  single 
Unitarian  (or  "Socinian,"  as  he  preferred  to  say) 
could  possibly  be  redeemed;  and  he  had  no  hope 

319 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  eternal  salvation  for  the  inhabitants  of  Catholic 
countries.  I  recollect  his  speaking  of  Austria. 
He  questioned  whether  a  single  Austrian  subject, 
except,  as  he  said,  here  and  there  a  pious  and 
extremely  ignorant  individual,  who  had  not  com- 
prehended the  errors  of  the  Papacy,  but  had 
humbly  studied  his  Bible,  could  hope  to  find 
eternal  life.  He  thought  that  the  ordinary 
Chinaman  or  savage  native  of  Fiji  had  a  better 
chance  of  salvation  than  any  cardinal  in  the 
Vatican.  And  even  in  the  priesthood  of  the 
Church  of  England  he  believed  that  while  many 
were  called,  few  indeed  would  be  found  to  have 
been  chosen. 

I  could  not  sympathise,  even  in  my  then  state 
of  ignorance,  with  so  rigid  a  conception  of  the 
Divine  mercy.  Little  inclined  as  I  was  to  be 
sceptical,  I  still  thought  it  impossible  that  a 
secret  of  such  stupendous  importance  should 
have  been  entrusted  to  a  little  group  of  Plymouth 
Brethren,  and  have  been  hidden  from  millions  of 
disinterested  and  pious  theologians.  That  the 
leaders  of  European  Christianity  were  sincere, 
my  Father  did  not  attempt  to  question.  But 
they  were  all  of  them  wrong,  incorrect;  and  no 
matter  how  holy  their  lives,  how  self-sacrificing 
their  actions,  they  would  have  to  suffer  for  their 
inexactitude  through  aeons  of  undefined  torment. 

320 


FATHER   AND   SON 

He  would  speak  with  a  solemn  complacency  of 
the  aged  nun,  who,  after  a  long  life  of  renuncia- 
tion and  devotion,  died  at  last,  "only  to  discover 
her  mistake." 

He  who  was  so  tender-hearted  that  he  could 
not  bear  to  witness  the  pain  or  distress  of  any 
person,  however  disagreeable  or  undeserving,  was 
quite  acquiescent  in  believing  that  God  would 
punish  human  beings,  in  millions  forever,  for  a 
purely  intellectual  error  of  comprehension. 

My  Father's  inconsistencies  of  perception  seem 
to  me  to  have  been  the  result  of  a  curious  irregu- 
larity of  equipment.  Taking  for  granted,  as  he 
did,  the  absolute  integrity  of  the  Scriptures,  and 
applying  to  them  his  trained  scientific  spirit,  he 
contrived  to  stifle  with  a  deplorable  success  alike 
the  function  of  the  imagination,  the  sense  of 
moral  justice  and  his  own  deep  and  instinctive 
tenderness  of  heart. 

There  presently  came  over  me  a  strong  desire  to 
know  what  doctrine  indeed  it  was  that  the  other 
Churches  taught.  I  expressed  a  wish  to  be  made 
aware  of  the  practices  of  Rome,  or  at  least  of 
Canterbury,  and  I  longed  to  attend  the  Anglican 
and  the  Roman  services.  But  to  do  so  was  im- 
possible. My  Father  did  not  forbid  me  to  enter 
the  fine  parish  church  of  our  village,  or  the  stately 
Puginesque    cathedral    which    Rome    had    just 

321 


FATHER  AND   SON 

erected  at  its  side,  but  I  knew  that  I  could  not 
be  seen  at  either  service  without  his  immediately 
knowing  it,  or  without  his  being  deeply  wounded. 
Although  I  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  although 
I  was  treated  with  indulgence  and  affection,  I 
was  still  but  a  bird  fluttering  in  the  net-work  of 
my  Father's  will,  and  incapable  of  the  smallest 
independent  action.  I  resigned  all  thought  of 
attending  any  other  services  than  those  at  our 
"Room,"  but  I  did  no  longer  regard  this  exclu- 
sion as  a  final  one.  I  bowed,  but  it  was  in  the 
house  of  Rimmon,  from  which  I  now  knew  that 
I  must  inevitably  escape.  All  the  liberation, 
however,  which  I  desired  or  dreamed  of  was  only 
just  so  much  as  would  bring  me  into  communion 
with  the  outer  world  of  Christianity,  without  di- 
vesting me  of  the  pure  and  simple  principles  of 
faith. 

Of  so  much  emancipation,  indeed,  I  now  be- 
came ardently  desirous,  and  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  it  I  rose  to  a  more  considerable  degree  of 
religious  fervour  than  I  had  ever  reached  before  or 
was  ever  to  experience  later.  Our  thoughts  were  at 
this  time  abundantly  exercised  with  the  expecta- 
tation  of  the  immediate  coming  of  the  Lord,  who, 
as  my  Father  and  those  who  thought  with  him 
believed,  would  suddenly  appear,  without  the 
least  warning,  and  would  catch  up  to  be  with 

322 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Him  in  everlasting  glory  all  whom  acceptance  of 
the  Atonement  had  sealed  for  immortality.  These 
were,  on  the  whole,  not  numerous,  and  our  belief 
was  that  the  world,  after  a  few  days'  amazement 
at  the  total  disappearance  of  these  persons, 
would  revert  to  its  customary  habits  of  life, 
merely  sinking  more  rapidly  into  a  moral  corrup- 
tion due  to  the  removal  of  these  souls  of  salt. 
This  event  an  examination  of  prophecy  had  led 
my  Father  to  regard  as  absolutely  imminent,  and 
sometimes,  when  we  parted  for  the  night,  he  would 
say  with  a  sparkling  rapture  in  his  eyes,  "Who 
knows?  We  may  meet  next  in  the  air,  with  all 
the  cohorts  of  God's  saints!" 

This  conviction  I  shared,  without  a  doubt ;  and, 
indeed, — in  perfect  innocency,  I  hope,  but  perhaps 
with  a  touch  of  slyness  too, — I  proposed  at  the  end 
of  the  summer  holidays  that  I  should  stay  at 
home.  "What  is  the  use  of  my  going  to  school? 
Let  me  be  with  you  when  we  rise  to  meet  the  Lord 
in  the  air!"  To  this  my  Father  sharply  and 
firmly  replied  that  it  was  our  duty  to  carry  on 
our  usual  avocations  to  the  last,  for  we  knew  not 
the  moment  of  His  coming,  and  we  should  be  to- 
gether in  an  instant  on  that  day,  how  far  soever 
we  might  be  parted  upon  earth.  I  was  ashamed, 
but  his  argument  was  logical,  and,  as  it  proved, 
judicious.     My  Father  lived  for  nearly  a  quarter 

323 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  a  century  more,  never  losing  the  hope  of  "not 
tasting  death/'  and  as  the  last  moments  of  mor- 
tality approached,  he  was  bitterly  disappointed  at 
what  he  held  to  be  a  scanty  reward  of  his  long 
faith  and  patience.  But  if  my  own  life's  work 
had  been,  as  I  proposed,  shelved  in  expectation 
of  the  Lord's  imminent  advent,  I  should  have 
cumbered  the  ground  until  this  day. 

To  school,  therefore,  I  returned  with  a  brain 
full  of  strange  discords,  in  a  huddled  mixture 
of  "Endymion"  and  the  Book  of  Revelation, 
John  Wesley's  hymns  and  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream.  Few  boys  of  my  age,  I  suppose,  carried 
about  with  them  such  a  confused  throng  of  im- 
mature impressions  and  contradictory  hopes. 
I  was  at  one  moment  devoutly  pious,  at  the  next 
haunted  by  visions  of  material  beauty  and  longing 
for  sensuous  impressions.  In  my  hot  and  silly 
brain,  Jesus  and  Pan  held  sway  together,  as  in  a 
wayside  chapel  discordantly  and  impishly  con- 
secrated to  Pagan  and  to  Christian  rites.  But 
for  the  present,  as  in  the  great  chorus  which  so 
marvellously  portrays  our  double  nature,  "the 
folding-star  of  Bethlehem"  was  still  dominant. 
I  became  more  and  more  pietistic.  Beginning 
now  to  versify,  I  wrote  a  tragedy  in  pale  imitation 
of  Shakespeare,  but  on  a  Biblical  and  evangelistic 
subject,  and  odes  that  were  imitations  of  those 

324 


FATHER   AND   SON 

in  " Prometheus  Unbound,"  but  dealt  with  the 
approaching  advent  of  our  Lord  and  the  rapture 
of  his  saints.  My  unwholesome  excitement, 
bubbling  up  in  this  violent  way,  reached  at  last 
a  climax  and  foamed  over. 

It  was  a  summer  afternoon,  and,  being  now  left 
very  free  in  my  movements,  I  had  escaped  from 
going  out  with  the  rest  of  my  school-fellows  in 
their  formal  walk  in  charge  of  an  usher.  I  had 
been  reading  a  good  deal  of  poetry,  but  my  heart 
had  translated  Apollo  and  Bacchus  into  terms 
of  exalted  Christian  faith.  I  was  alone,  and  I  lay 
on  a  sofa,  drawn  across  a  large  open  window  at 
the  top  of  the  school-house,  in  a  room  which  was 
used  as  a  study  by  the  boys  who  were  "going  up  for 
examination."  I  gazed  down  on  a  labyrinth  of 
gardens  sloping  to  the  sea,  which  twinkled  faintly 
beyond  the  towers  of  the  town.  Each  of  these 
gardens  held  a  villa  in  it,  but  all  the  near  land- 
scape below  me  was  drowned  in  foliage.  A 
wonderful  warm  light  of  approaching  sunset 
modelled  the  shadows  and  set  the  broad  summits 
of  the  trees  in  a  rich  glow.  There  was  an  abso- 
lute silence  below  and  around  me,  a  magic  of  sus- 
pense seemed  to  keep  every  topmost  twig  from 
waving. 

Over  my  soul  there  swept  an  immense  wave 
of  emotion.     Now,  surely,  now  the  great  final 

325 


FATHER   AND   SON 

change  must  be  approaching.  I  gazed  up  into  the 
faintly-coloured  sky,  and  I  broke  irresistibly 
into  speech.  "Come  now,  Lord  Jesus,"  I  cried, 
"come  now  and  take  me  to  be  for  ever  with  Thee 
in  Thy  Paradise.  I  am  ready  to  come.  My 
heart  is  purged  from  sin,  there  is  nothing  that 
keeps  me  rooted  to  this  wicked  world.  Oh,  come 
now,  now,  and  take  me  before  I  have  known  the 
temptations  of  life,  before  I  have  to  go  to  Lon- 
don and  all  the  dreadful  things  that  happen 
there!"  And  I  raised  myself  on  the  sofa,  and 
leaned  upon  the  window-sill,  and  waited  for  the 
glorious  apparition. 

This  was  the  highest  moment  of  my  religious 
life,  the  apex  of  my  striving  after  holiness.  I 
waited  awhile,  watching;  and  then  I  had  a  little 
shame  at  the  theatrical  attitude  I  had  adopted, 
although  I  was  alone.  Still  I  gazed  and  still  I 
hoped.  Then  a  little  breeze  sprang  up,  and  the 
branches  danced.  Sounds  began  to  rise  from 
the  road  beneath  me.  Presently  the  colour  deep- 
ened, the  evening  came  on.  From  far  below  there 
rose  to  me  the  chatter  of  the  boys  returning  home. 
The  tea-bell  rang, — last  word  of  prose  to  shatter 
my  mystical  poetry.  "The  Lord  has  not  come, 
the  Lord  will  never  come,"  I  muttered,  and  in 
my  heart  the  artificial  edifice  of  extravagant 
faith  began  to  totter  and  crumble.    From  that 

326 


FATHER   AND   SON 

moment  forth  my  Father  and  I,  though  the  fact 
was  long  successfully  concealed  from  him  and 
even  from  myself,  walked  in  opposite  hemis- 
pheres of  the  soul,  with  "the  thick  o'  the  world 
between  us." 


327 


EPILOGUE 

This  narrative,  however,  must  not  be  allowed  to 
close  with  the  son  in  the  foreground  of  the  piece. 
If  it  has  a  value,  that  value  consists  in  what 
light  it  may  contrive  to  throw  upon  the  unique 
and  noble  figure  of  the  father.  With  the  ad- 
vance of  years,  the  characteristics  of  this  figure 
became  more  severely  outlined,  more  rigorously 
confined  within  settled  limits.  In  relation  to 
the  son — who  presently  departed,  at  a  very  im- 
mature age,  for  the  new  life  in  London — the  at- 
titude of  the  father  continued  to  be  one  of  ex- 
treme solicitude,  deepening  by  degrees  into  dis- 
appointment and  disenchantment.  He  abated 
no  jot  or  tittle  of  his  demands  upon  human  frailty. 
He  kept  the  spiritual  cord  drawn  tight;  the  Bib- 
lical bearing-rein  was  incessantly  busy,  jerking 
into  position  the  head  of  the  dejected  neophyte. 
That  young  soul,  removed  from  the  father's  per- 
sonal inspection,  began  to  blossom  forth  crudely 
and  irregularly  enough   into  new  provinces  of 

328 


FATHER   AND   SON 

thought,  through  fresh  layers  of  experience.  To 
the  painful  mentor  at  home  in  the  West,  the 
centre  of  anxiety  was  still  the  meek  and  docile 
heart,  dedicated  to  the  Lord's  service,  which 
must,  at  all  hazards  and  with  all  defiance  of 
the  rules  of  life,  be  kept  unspotted  from  the 
world. 

The  torment  of  a  postal  inquisition  began  di- 
rectly I  was  settled  in  my  London  lodgings.  To 
my  Father, — with  his  ample  leisure,  his  palpitating 
apprehension,  his  ready  pen, — the  flow  of  cor- 
respondence offered  no  trouble  at  all;  it  was  a 
grave  but  gratifying  occupation.  To  me  the  al- 
most daily  letter  of  exhortation,  with  its  siring 
of  questions  about  conduct,  its  series  of  warnings, 
grew  to  be  a  burden  which  could  hardly  be  borne, 
particularly  because  it  involved  a  reply  as  punc- 
tual and  if  possible  as  full  as  itself.  At  the  age 
of  seventeen,  the  metaphysics  of  the  soul  are 
shadowy,  and  it  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  forced 
to  define  the  exact  outline  of  what  is  so  undu- 
lating and  so  shapeless.  To  my  Father  there 
seemed  no  reason  why  I  should  hesitate  to  give 
answers  of  full  metallic  ring  to  his  hard  and  oft- 
repeated  questions;  but  to  me  this  correspond- 
ence was  torture.  When  I  feebly  expostulated, 
when  I  begged  to  be  left  a  little  to  myself,  these 
appeals  of  mine  automatically  stimulated,  and 

329 


FATHER   AND   SON 

indeed  blew  up  into  fierce  flames,  the  ardour  of 
my  Father's  alarm. 

The  letter,  the  only  too-confidently  expected 
letter,  would  He  on  the  table  as  I  descended  to 
breakfast.  It  would  commonly  be,  of  course, 
my  only  [letter,  unless  tempered  by  a  cosy  and 
chatty  note  from  my  dear  and  comfortable  step- 
mother, dealing  with  such  perfectly  tranquillising 
subjects  as  the  harvest  of  roses  in  the  garden  or 
the  state  of  health  of  various  neighbours.  But 
the  other,  the  solitary  letter,  in  its  threatening 
whiteness,  with  its  exquisitely  penned  address — 
there  it  would  lie  awaiting  me,  destroying  the 
taste  of  the  bacon,  reducing  the  flavour  of  the 
tea  to  insipidity.  I  might  fatuously  dally  with 
it,  I  might  pretend  not  to  observe  it,  but  there 
it  lay.  Before  the  morning's  exercise  began,  I 
knew  that  it  had  to  be  read,  and  what  was 
worse,  that  it  had  to  be  answered.  Useless  the 
effort  to  conceal  from  myself  what  it  contained. 
Like  all  its  precursors,  like  all  its  followers,  it 
would  insist,  with  every  variety  of  appeal,  on 
a  reiterated  declaration  that  I  still  fully  intended, 
as  in  the  days  of  my  earliest  childhood,  "to  be  on 
the  Lord's  side"  in  everything. 

In  my  replies,  I  would  sometimes  answer  pre- 
cisely as  I  was  desired  to  answer;  sometimes  I 
would  evade  the  queries,  and  write  about  other 

330 


FATHER   AND   SON 

things;  sometimes  I  would  turn  upon  the  tor- 
mentor, and  urge  that  my  tender  youth  might 
be  let  alone.  It  little  mattered  what  form  of 
weakness  I  put  forth  by  way  of  baffling  my 
Father's  direct,  firm,  unflinching  strength.  To 
an  appeal  against  the  bondage  of  a  correspond- 
ence of  such  unbroken  solemnity  I  would  receive 
— with  what  a  paralysing  promptitude! — such  a 
reply  as  this: — 

"Let  me  say  that  the  'solemnity'  you  com- 
plain of  has  only  been  the  expression  of  tender 
anxiousness  of  a  father's  heart,  that  his  only 
child,  just  turned  out  upon  the  world,  and  very 
far  out  of  his  sight  and  hearing,  should  be  walk- 
ing in  God's  way.  Recollect  that  it  is  not  now 
as  it  was  when  you  were  at  school,  when  we  had 
personal  communication  with  you  at  intervals 
of  five  days: — we  now  know  absolutely  nothing 
of  you,  save  from  your  letters,  and  if  they  do  not 
indicate  your  spiritual  prosperity,  the  deepest 
solicitudes  of  our  hearts  have  nothing  to  feed 
on.  But  I  will  try  henceforth  to  trust  you,  and 
lay  aside  my  fears ;  for  you  are  worthy  of  my  con- 
fidence; and  your  own  God  and  your  father's 
God  will  hold  you  with  His  right  hand." 

Over  such  letters  as  these  I  am  not  ashamed 
331 


FATHER   AND   SON 

to  say  that  I  sometimes  wept;  the  old  paper  I 
have  just  been  copying  shows  traces  of  tears  shed 
upon  it  more  than  forty  years  ago,  tears  com- 
mingled of  despair  at  my  own  feebleness,  distrac- 
tion at  my  want  of  will,  pity  for  my  Father's 
manifest  and  pathetic  distress.  He  would  "try 
henceforth  to  trust"  me,  he  said.  Alas!  the 
effort  would  be  in  vain ;  after  a  day  or  two,  after 
a  hollow  attempt  to  write  of  other  things,  the  im- 
portunate subject  would  recur;  there  would  in- 
trude again  the  inevitable  questions  about  the 
Atonement  and  the  Means  of  Grace,  the  old  anx- 
ious fears  lest  I  was  "yielding"  my  intimacy  to 
agreeable  companions  who  were  not  "one  with 
me  in  Christ,"  fresh  passionate  entreaties  to  be 
assured,  in  every  letter,  that  I  was  walking  in  the 
clear  light  of  God's  presence. 

It  seems  to  me  now  profoundly  strange,  al- 
though I  knew  too  little  of  the  world  to  remark  it 
at  the  time,  that  these  incessant  exhortations 
dealt,  not  with  conduct,  but  with  faith.  Earlier 
in  this  narrative  I  have  noted  how  disdainfully, 
with  what  an  austere  pride,  my  Father  refused 
to  entertain  the  subject  of  personal  shortcom- 
ings in  my  behaviour.  There  were  enough  of 
them  to  blame,  heaven  knows,  but  he  was  too 
lofty-minded  a  gentleman  to  dwell  upon  them, 
and,  though  by  nature  deeply  suspicious  of  the 

332 


FATHER   AND   SON 

possibility  of  frequent  moral  lapses,  even  in  the 
very  elect,  he  refused  to  stoop  to  anything  like 
espionage. 

I  owe  him  a  deep  debt  of  gratitude  for  his 
beautiful  faith  in  me  in  this  respect,  and  now 
that  I  was  alone  in  London,  at  this  tender  time 
of  life,  "exposed,"  as  they  say,  to  all  sorts 
of  dangers,  as  defenceless  as  a  fledgling  that 
has  been  turned  out  of  its  nest,  yet  my  Father 
did  not,  in  his  uplifted  Quixotism,  allow  himself 
to  fancy  me  guilty  of  any  moral  misbehaviour, 
but  concentrated  his  fears  entirely  upon  my  faith. 

"Let  me  know  more  of  your  inner  light.  Does 
the  candle  of  the  Lord  shine  on  your  soul?" 
This  would  be  the  ceaseless  inquiry.  Or,  again, 
"Do  you  get  any  spiritual  companionship  with 
young  men?  You  passed  over  last  Sunday  with- 
out even  a  word,  yet  this  day  is  the  most  interest- 
ing to  me  in  your  whole  week.  Do  you  find  the 
ministry  of  the  Word  pleasant,  and,  above  all, 
profitable?  Does  it  bring  your  soul  into  exer- 
cise before  God?  The  Coming  of  Christ  draweth 
nigh.  Watch,  therefore,  and  pray  always,  that 
you  may  be  counted  worthy  to  stand  before  the 
Son  of  Man." 

If  I  quote  such  passages  as  this  from  my 
Father's  letters  to  me,  it  is  not  that  I  seek 
entertainment  in  a  contrast  between  his  earnest- 

333 


FATHER   AND   SON 

ness  and  the  casuistical  inattention  and  pro- 
voked distractedness  of  a  young  man  to  whom 
the  real  world  now  offered  its  irritating  and 
stimulating  scenes  of  animal  and  intellectual  life, 
but  to  call  out  sympathy,  and  perhaps  wonder, 
at  the  spectacle  of  so  blind  a  Roman  firmness 
as  my  Father's  spiritual  attitude  displayed. 

His  aspirations  were  individual  and  meta- 
physical. At  the  present  hour,  so  complete  is 
the  revolution  which  has  overturned  the  puritan- 
ism  of  which  he  was  perhaps  the  latest  surviving 
type,  that  all  classes  of  religious  persons  com- 
bine in  placing  philanthropic  activity,  the  ob- 
jective attitude,  in  the  foreground.  It  is  extra- 
ordinary how  far-reaching  the  change  has  been, 
so  that  nowadays  a  religion  which  does  not  com- 
bine with  its  subjective  faith  a  strenuous  labour 
for  the  good  of  others  is  hardly  held  to  possess 
any  religious  principle  worth  holding. 

This  propaganda  of  beneficence,  this  constant 
attention  to  the  moral  and  physical  improvement 
of  persons  who  have  been  neglected,  is  quite  recent 
as  a  leading  feature  of  religion,  though  indeed  it 
seems  to  have  formed  some  part  of  the  Saviour's 
original  design.  It  was  unknown  to  the  great 
divines  of  the  seventeenth  century,  whether 
Catholic  or  Protestant,  and  it  offered  but  a  shad- 
owy attraction  to  my  Father,  who  was  the  last 

334 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  their  disciples.  When  Bossuet  desired  his 
hearers  to  listen  to  the  "cride  misere  a  Ventour  de 
nous,  qui  devrait  nous  Jondre  le  ccmr"  he  started 
a  new  thing  in  the  world  of  theology.  We  may 
search  the  famous  "Rule  and  Exercises  of  Holy 
Living"  from  cover  to  cover,  and  not  learn  that 
Jeremy  Taylor  would  have  thought  that  any 
activity  of  the  district-visitor  or  the  Salvation 
lassie  came  within  the  category  of  saintliness. 

My  Father,  then,  like  an  old  divine,  concen- 
trated his  thoughts  upon  the  intellectual  part  of 
faith.  In  his  obsession  about  me,  he  believed 
that  if  my  brain  could  be  kept  unaffected  by  any 
of  the  tempting  errors  of  the  age,  and  my  heart 
centred  in  the  adoring  love  of  God,  all  would  be 
well  with  me  in  perpetuity.  He  was  still  con- 
vinced that  by  intensely  directing  my  thoughts, 
he  could  compel  them  to  flow  in  a  certain  chan- 
nel, since  he  had  not  begun  to  learn  the  lesson, 
so  mournful  for  saintly  men  of  his  complexion, 
that  "virtue  would  not  be  virtue,  could  it  be 
given  by  one  fellow  creature  to  another."  He 
had  recognised,  with  reluctance,  that  holiness 
was  not  hereditary,  but  he  continued  to  hope 
that  it  might  be  compulsive.  I  was  still  "the 
child  of  many  prayers,"  and  it  was  not  to  be 
conceded  that  these  prayers  could  remain  un- 
answered. 

335 


FATHER   AND   SON 

The  great  panacea  was  now,  as  always,  the 
study  of  the  Bible,  and  this  my  Father  never 
ceased  to  urge  upon  me.  He  presented  to  me 
a  copy  of  Dean  Alford's  edition  of  the  Greek 
New  Testament,  in  four  great  volumes,  and  these 
he  had  had  so  magnificently  bound  in  full  morocco 
that  the  work  shone  on  my  poor  shelf  of  sixpenny 
poets  like  a  duchess  among  dairy-maids.  He 
extracted  from  me  a  written  promise  that  I  would 
translate  and  meditate  upon  a  portion  of  the 
Greek  text  every  morning  before  I  started  for 
business.  This  promise  I  presently  failed  to 
keep,  my  good  intentions  being  undermined  by 
an  invincible  ennui;  I  concealed  the  dereliction 
from  him,  and  the  sense  that  I  was  deceiving  my 
Father  ate  into  my  conscience  like  a  canker. 
But  the  dilemma  was  now  before  me  that  I  must 
either  deceive  my  Father  in  such  things  or  para- 
lyse my  own  character. 

My  growing  distaste  for  the  Holy  Scriptures 
began  to  occupy  my  thoughts,  and  to  surprise 
as  much  as  it  scandalised  me.  My  desire  was  to 
continue  to  delight  in  those  sacred  pages,  for 
which  I  still  had  an  instinctive  veneration.  Yet 
I  could  not  but  observe  the  difference  between  the 
zeal  with  which  I  snatched  at  a  volume  of  Carlyle 
or  Ruskin — since  these  magicians  were  now  first 
revealing   themselves   to   me — and  the    increas- 

336 


FATHER   AND   SON 

ing  languor  with  which  I  took  up  Alford  for  my 
daily  " passage."  Of  course,  although  I  did  not 
know  it,  and  believed  my  reluctance  to  be  sinful, 
the  real  reason  why  I  now  found  the  Bible  so 
difficult  to  read  was  my  familiarity  with  its  con- 
tents. These  had  the  colourless  triteness  of  a 
story  retold  a  hundred  times.  I  longed  for 
something  new,  something  that  would  gratify 
curiosity  and  excite  surprise.  Whether  the  facts 
and  doctrines  contained  in  the  Bible  were  true 
or  false  was  not  the  question  that  appealed  to 
me;  it  was  rather  that  they  had  been  presented 
to  me  so  often  and  had  sunken  into  me  so  far 
that,  as  some  one  has  said,  they  "lay  bedridden 
in  the  dormitory  of  the  soul,"  and  made  no  im- 
pression of  any  kind  upon  me. 

It  often  amazed  me,  and  I  am  still  unable  to 
understand  the  fact,  that  my  Father,  through 
his  long  life — or  till  nearly  the  close  of  it — con- 
tinued to  take  an  eager  pleasure  in  the  text  of 
the  Bible.  As  I  think  I  have  already  said,  be- 
fore he  reached  middle  life,  he  had  committed 
practically  the  whole  of  it  to  memory,  and  if 
started  anywhere,  even  in  a  Minor  Prophet,  he 
could  go  on  without  a  break  as  long  as  ever  he 
was  inclined  for  that  exercise.  He,  therefore, 
at  no  time  can  have  been  assailed  by  the  satiety 
of  which  I  have  spoken,  and  that  it  came  so  soon 

337 


FATHER   AND   SON 

to  me  I  must  take  simply  as  an  indication  of 
difference  of  temperament.  It  was  not  possible, 
even  through  the  dark  glass  of  correspondence, 
to  deceive  his  eagle  eye  in  this  matter,  and  his 
suspicions  accordingly  took  another  turn.  He 
conceived  me  to  have  become,  or  to  be  becom- 
ing, a  victim  of  "the  infidelity  of  the  age." 

In  this  new  difficulty,  he  appealed  to  forms  of 
modern  literature  by  the  side  of  which  the  least  at- 
tractive pages  of  Leviticus  or  Deuteronomy  struck 
me  as  even  thrilling.  In  particular,  he  urged 
upon  me  a  work,  then  just  published,  called 
"The  Continuity  of  Scripture"  by  William  Page 
Wood,  afterwards  Lord  Chancellor  Hatherley. 
I  do  not  know  why  he  supposed  that  the  lucu- 
brations of  an  exemplary  lawyer,  delivered  in  a 
style  that  was  like  the  trickling  sawdust,  would 
succeed  in  rousing  emotions  which  the  glorious 
rhetoric  of  the  Orient  had  failed  to  awaken;  but 
Page  Wood  had  been  a  Sunday  School  teacher  for 
thirty  years,  and  my  Father  was  always  unduly 
impressed  by  the  acumen  of  pious  barristers. 

As  time  went  on,  and  I  grew  older  and  more 
independent  in  mind,  my  Father's  anxiety  about 
what  he  called  "the  pitfalls  and  snares  which 
surround  on  every  hand  the  thoughtless  giddy 
youth  of  London"  became  extremely  painful  to 
himself.    By  harping  in  private  upon  these  "pit- 

338 


FATHER   AND   SON 

falls" — which  brought  to  my  imagination  a  funny 
rough  woodcut  in  an  old  edition  of  Bunyan,  where 
a  devil  was  seen  capering  over  a  sort  of  box  let 
neatly  into  the  ground — he  worked  himself  up 
into  a  frame  of  mind  which  was  not  a  little  irri- 
tating to  his  hapless  correspondent,  who  was 
now  " snared"  indeed,  limed  by  the  pen  like  a 
bird  by  the  feet,  and  could  not  by  any  means  es- 
cape. To  a  peck  or  a  flutter  from  the  bird  the 
implacable  fowler  would  reply: 

"You  charge  me  with  being  suspicious,  and 
I  fear  I  cannot  deny  the  charge.  But  I  can  ap- 
peal to  your  own  sensitive  and  thoughtful  mind 
for  a  considerable  allowance.  My  deep  and  tender 
love  for  you;  your  youth  and  inexperience;  the 
examples  of  other  young  men ;  your  distance  from 
parental  counsel;  our  absolute  and  painful  ig- 
norance of  all  the  details  of  your  daily  life,  ex- 
cept what  you  yourself  tell  us: — try  to  throw 
yourself  into  the  standing  of  a  parent,  and  say  if 
my  suspiciousness  is  unreasonable.  I  rejoicingly 
acknowledge  that  from  all  I  see  you  are  pursuing 
a  virtuous,  steady,  worthy  course.  One  good 
thing  my  suspiciousness  does: — ever  and  anon  it 
brings  out  from  you  assurances,  which  greatly 
refresh  and  comfort  me.  And,  again,  it  carries 
me  ever  to  God's  Throne  of  Grace  on  your  behalf. 

339 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Holy  Job  suspected  that  his  sons  might  have  sinned 
and  cursed  God  in  their  heart.  Was  not  his  sus- 
picion much  like  mine,  grounded  on  the  same 
reasons,  and  productive  of  the  same  results? 
For  it  drove  him  to  God  in  intercession.  I  have 
adduced  the  example  of  this  Patriarch  before, 
and  he  will  endure  being  looked  at  again." 

In  fact,  Holy  Job  continued  to  be  frequently 
looked  at,  and  for  this  Patriarch  I  came  to  ex- 
perience a  hatred  which  was  as  venomous  as  it 
was  undeserved.  But  what  youth  of  eighteen 
would  willingly  be  compared  with  the  sons  of  Job? 
And  indeed,  for  my  part,  I  felt  much  more  like 
that  justly  exasperated  character,  Elihu  the  Buz- 
ite,  of  the  kindred  of  Ram. 

As  time  went  on,  the  peculiar  strain  of  in- 
quisition was  relaxed,  and  I  endured  fewer  and 
fewer  of  the  torments  of  religious  correspond- 
ence. Nothing  abides  in  one  tense  projection, 
and  my  Father,  resolute  as  he  was,  had  other 
preoccupations.  His  orchids,  his  microscope, 
his  physiological  researches,  his  interpretations 
of  prophecy,  rilled  up  the  hours  of  his  active  and 
strenuous  life,  and,  out  of  his  sight,  I  became  not 
indeed  out  of  his  mind,  but  no  longer  ceaselessly 
in  the  painful .  foreground  of  it.  Yet,  although 
the  reiteration  of  his  anxiety  might  weary  him  a 

340 


FATHER  AND   SON 

little  as  it  had  wearied  me  well  nigh  to  groans  of 
despair,  there  was  not  the  slightest  change  in  his 
real  attitude  towards  the  subject  or  towards  me. 

I  have  already  had  occasion  to  say  that  he 
had  nothing  of  the  mystic  or  the  visionary 
about  him.  At  certain  times  and  on  certain 
points,  he  greatly  desired  that  signs  and  wonders, 
such  as  had  astonished  and  encouraged  the  in- 
fancy of  the  Christian  Church,  might  again  be 
vouchsafed  to  it,  but  he  did  not  pretend  to  see 
such  miracles  himself,  or  give  the  slightest  cre- 
dence to  others  who  asserted  that  they  did.  He 
often  congratulated  himself  on  the  fact  that  al- 
though his  mind  dwelt  so  constantly  on  spiritual 
matters  it  was  never  betrayed  into  any  suspen- 
sion of  the  rational  functions. 

Cross-examination  by  letter  slackened,  but  on 
occasion  of  my  brief  and  usually  summer  visits 
to  Devonshire  I  suffered  acutely  from  my  Father's 
dialectical  appetites.  He  was  surrounded  by 
peasants,  on  whom  the  teeth  of  his  arguments 
could  find  no  purchase.  To  him,  in  that  intel- 
lectual Abdera,  even  an  unwilling  youth  from 
London  offered  opportunities  of  pleasant  contest. 
He  would  declare  himself  ready,  nay  eager,  for 
argument.  With  his  mental  sleeves  turned  up, 
he  would  adopt  a  fighting  attitude,  and  challenge 
me  to  a  round  on  any  portion  of  the  Scheme  of 

341 


FATHER   AND   SON 

Grace.  His  alacrity  was  dreadful  to  me,  his  well 
aimed  blows  fell  on  what  was  rather  a  bladder 
or  a  pillow  than  a  vivid  antagonist. 

He  was,  indeed,  most  unfairly  handicapped, — I 
was  naked,  he  in  a  suit  of  chain  armour, — for  he 
had  adopted  a  method  which  I  thought,  and  must 
still  think,  exceedingly  unfair.  He  assumed 
that  he  had  private  knowledge  of  the  Divine  Will, 
and  he  would  meet  my  temporising  arguments  by 
asseverations, — "So  sure  as  my  God  liveth:"  or 
by  appeals  to  a  higher  authority — "But  what 
does  my  Lord  tell  me  in  Paul's  Letter  to  the 
Philippians?"  It  was  the  prerogative  of  his  faith 
to  know,  and  of  his  character  to  overpower,  ob- 
jection; between  these  two  millstones  I  was  rap- 
idly ground  to  powder. 

These  "discussions,"  as  they  were  rather  iron- 
ically called,  invariably  ended  for  me  in  disaster. 
I  was  driven  out  of  my  papier-mache  fastnesses, 
my  canvas  walls  rocked  at  the  first  peal  from  my 
Father's  clarion,  and  the  foe  pursued  me  across 
the  plains  of  Jericho  until  I  lay  down  ignomin- 
iously  and  covered  my  face.  I  seemed  to  be 
pushed  with  horns  of  iron,  such  as  those  which 
Zedekiah  the  son  of  Chenaanah  prepared  for  the 
encouragement  of  Ahab. 

When  I  acknowledged  defeat  and  cried  for 
quarter,  my  Father  would  become  radiant,  and  I 

342 


FATHER  AND   SON 

still  seem  to  hear  the  sound  of  his  full  voice,  so 
thrilling,  so  warm,  so  painful  to  my  over-strained 
nerves,  bursting  forth  in  a  sort  of  benediction  at 
the  end  of  each  of  these  one-sided  contentions, 
with  "I  bow  my  knees  unto  the  Father  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  that  He  would  grant  you,  ac- 
cording to  the  riches  of  his  glory,  to  be  strength- 
ened with  might  by  His  Spirit  in  the  inner  man; 
that  Christ  may  dwell  in  your  heart  by  faith; 
that  you,  being  rooted  and  grounded  in  love,  may 
be  able  to  comprehend  with  all  saints  what  is 
the  breadth,  and  length,  and  depth,  and  height, 
and  to  know  the  love  of  Christ  which  passeth 
knowledge,  that  you  might  be  filled  with  the  ful- 
ness of  God." 

Thus  solemn,  and  thus  ceremonious  was  my 
Father  apt  to  become,  without  a  moment's  warn- 
ing, on  plain  and  domestic  occasions;  abruptly 
brimming  over  with  emotion  like  a  basin  which 
an  unseen  flow  of  water  has  filled  and  over- 
filled. 

I  earnestly  desire  that  no  trace  of  that  absurd 
self-pity  which  is  apt  to  taint  recollections  of  this 
nature  should  give  falsity  to  mine.  My  Father, 
let  me  say  once  more,  had  other  interests  than 
those  of  his  religion.  In  particular,  at  this  time, 
he  took  to  painting  in  water-colours  in  the  open 
air,  and  he  resumed  the  assiduous  study  of  bot- 

343 


FATHER   AND   SON 

any.  He  was  no  fanatical  monomaniac.  Never- 
theless, there  was,  in  everything  he  did  and  said, 
the  central  purpose  present.  He  acknowledged 
it  plainly;  "with  me,"  he  confessed,  "every  ques- 
tion assumes  a  Divine  standpoint  and  is  not  ade- 
quately answered  if  the  judgment-seat  of  Christ 
is  not  kept  in  sight." 

This  was  maintained  whether  the  subject  under 
discussion  was  poetry,  or  society,  or  the  Prussian 
war  with  Austria,  or  the  stamen  of  a  wild  flower. 
Once  at  least,  he  was  himself  conscious  of  the 
fatiguing  effect  on  my  temper  of  this  insistency, 
for,  raising  his  great  brown  eyes  with  a  flash  of 
laughter  in  them,  he  closed  the  Bible  suddenly 
after  a  very  lengthy  disquisition,  and  quoted  his 
Virgil  to  startling  effect: — 

Claudite  jam  rivos,  pueri:  sat  prata  biberunt 

The  insistency  of  his  religious  conversation 
was,  probably,  the  less  incomprehensible  to  me 
on  account  of  the  evangelical  training  to  which 
I  had  been  so  systematically  subjected.  It  was, 
however,  none  the  less  intolerably  irksome,  and 
would  have  been  exasperating,  I  believe,  even 
to  a  nature  in  which  a  powerful  and  genuine  piety 
was  inherent.  To  my  own,  in  which  a  feeble  and 
imitative  faith  was  expiring,  it  was  deeply  vex- 

344 


FATHER   AND   SON 

atious.  It  led,  alas!  to  a  great  deal  of  bowing 
in  the  house  of  Rimmon,  to  much  hypocritical  in- 
genuity in  drawing  my  Father's  attention  away, 
if  possible,  as  the  terrible  subject  was  seen  to  be 
looming  and  approaching.  In  this  my  step- 
mother would  aid  and  abet,  sometimes  producing 
incongruous  themes,  likely  to  attract  my  Father 
aside,  with  a  skill  worthy  of  a  parlour  conjurer, 
and  much  to  my  admiration.  If,  however,  she 
was  not  unwilling  to  come,  in  this  way,  to  the 
support  of  my  feebleness,  there  was  no  open 
collusion  between  us.  She  always  described  my 
Father,  when  she  was  alone  with  me,  admiringly, 
as  one  "whose  trumpet  gave  no  uncertain  sound." 
There  was  not  a  tinge  of  infidelity  upon  her  can- 
did mind,  but  she  was  human,  and  I  think  that 
now  and  then  she  was  extremely  bored. 

My  Father  was  entirely  devoid  of  the  prudence 
which  turns  away  its  eyes  and  passes  as  rapidly 
as  possible  in  the  opposite  direction.  The  pe- 
culiar kind  of  drama  in  which  every  sort  of  social 
discomfort  is  welcomed  rather  than  that  the  char- 
acters should  be  happy  when  guilty  of  "acting 
a  lie,"  was  not  invented  in  those  days,  and  there 
can  hardly  be  imagined  a  figure  more  remote 
from  my  Father  than  Ibsen.  Yet  when  I  came, 
at  a  far  later  date,  to  read  The  Wild  Duck,  mem- 
ories of  the  embarrassing  household  of  my  infancy 

345 


FATHER   AND   SON 

helped  me  to  realise  Gregers  Werle,  with  his  de- 
termination to  pull  the  veil  of  illusion  away 
from  every  compromise  that  makes  life  bearable. 

I  was  docile,  I  was  plausible,  I  was  anything  but 
combative;  if  my  Father  could  have  persuaded 
himself  to  let  me  alone,  if  he  could  merely  have 
been  willing  to  leave  my  subterfuges  and  my  ex- 
planations unanalysed,  all  would  have  been  well. 
But  he  refused  to  see  any  difference  in  tempera- 
ment between  a  lad  of  twenty  and  a  sage  of  sixty. 
He  had  no  vital  sympathy  for  youth,  which  in 
itself  had  no  charm  for  him.  He  had  no  com- 
passion for  the  weaknesses  of  immaturity,  and 
his  one  and  only  anxiety  was  to  be  at  the  end  of 
his  spiritual  journey,  safe  with  me  in  the  house 
where  there  are  many  mansions.  The  incidents  of 
human  life  upon  the  road  to  glory  were  less  than 
nothing  to  him. 

My  Father  was  very  fond  of  defining  what  was 
his  own  attitude  at  this  time,  and  he  was  never 
tired  of  urging  the  same  ambition  upon  me.  He 
regarded  himself  as  the  faithful  steward  of  a 
Master  who  might  return  at  any  moment,  and 
who  would  require  to  find  everything  ready  for 
his  convenience.  That  master  was  God,  with 
whom  my  Father  seriously  believed  himself  to 
be  in  relations  much  more  confidential  than  those 
vouchsafed  to  ordinary  pious  persons.  He  awaited, 

346 


FATHER   AND   SON 

with  anxious  hope,  "the  coming  of  the  Lord,"  an 
event  which  he  still  frequently  believed  to  be  immi- 
nent. He  would  calculate,  by  reference  to  pro- 
phecies in  the  Old  and  New  Testament,  the  exact 
date  of  this  event;  the  date  would  pass,  without 
the  expected  Advent,  and  he  would  be  more  than 
disappointed, — he  would  be  incensed.  Then  he 
would  understand  that  he  must  have  made  some 
slight  error  in  calculation,  and  the  pleasures  of 
anticipation  would  recommence. 

Me  in  all  this  he  used  as  a  kind  of  inferior 
coadjutor,  much  as  a  responsible  and  upper 
servant  might  use  a  footboy.  I,  also,  must  be 
watching ;  it  was  not  important  that  I  should  be 
seriously  engaged  in  any  affairs  of  my  own.  I 
must  be  ready  for  the  Master's  coming ;  and  my 
Father's  incessant  cross-examination  was  made  in 
the  spirit  of  a  responsible  servant  who  fidgets 
lest  some  humble  but  essential  piece  of  household 
work  has  been  neglected. 

My  holidays,  however,  and  all  my  personal  re- 
lations with  my  Father  were  poisoned  by  this 
insistency.  I  was  never  at  my  ease  in  his  com- 
pany; I  never  knew  when  I  might  not  be  sub- 
jected to  a  series  of  searching  questions  which  I 
should  not  be  allowed  to  evade.  Meanwhile,  on 
every  other  stage  of  experience  I  was  gaining  the 
reliance  upon  self  and  the  respect  for  the  opinion 

347 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  others  which  come  naturally  to  a  young  man 
of  sober  habits  who  earns  his  own  living  and  lives 
his  own  life.  For  this  kind  of  independence  my 
Father  had  no  respect  or  consideration,  when 
questions  of  religion  were  introduced,  although  he 
handsomely  conceded  it  on  other  points.  And 
now  first  there  occurred  to  me  the  reflection,  which 
in  years  to  come  I  was  to  repeat  over  and  over, 
with  an  ever  sadder  emphasis, — what  a  charming 
companion,  what  a  delightful  parent,  what  a  cour- 
teous and  engaging  friend,  my  Father  would  have 
been,  and  would  pre-eminently  have  been  to  me, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  this  stringent  piety  which 
ruined  it  all. 

Let  me  speak  plainly.  After  my  long  experi- 
ence, after  my  patience  and  forbearance,  I  have 
surely  the  right  to  protest  against  the  untruth 
(would  that  I  could  apply  to  it  any  other  word!) 
that  evangelical  religion,  or  any  religion  in  a 
violent  form,  is  a  wholesome  or  valuable  or  desir- 
able adjunct  to  human  life.  It  divides  heart  from 
heart.  It  sets  up  a  vain,  chimerical  ideal  in  the 
barren  pursuit  of  which  all  the  tender,  indulgent 
affections,  all  the  genial  play  of  fife,  all  the  ex- 
quisite pleasures  and  soft  resignations  of  the  body, 
all  that  enlarges  and  calms  the  soul,  are  exchanged 
for  what  is  harsh  and  void  and  negative.  It  en- 
courages a  stern  and  ignorant  spirit  of  condem- 

348 


FATHER   AND   SON 

nation;  it  throws  altogether  out  of  gear  the 
healthy  movement  of  the  conscience;  it  invents 
virtues  which  are  sterile  and  cruel ;  it  invents  sins 
which  are  no  sins  at  all,  but  which  darken  the 
heaven  of  innocent  joy  with  futile  clouds  of  re- 
morse. There  is  something  horrible,  if  we  will 
bring  ourselves  to  face  it,  in  the  fanaticism  that 
can  do  nothing  with  this  pathetic  and  fugitive 
existence  of  ours  but  treat  it  as  if  it  were  the  un- 
comfortable ante-chamber  to  a  palace  which  no 
one  has  explored  and  of  the  plan  of  which  we 
know  absolutely  nothing.  My  Father,  it  is  true, 
believed  that  he  was  intimately  acquainted  with 
the  form  and  furniture  of  this  habitation,  and  he 
wished  me  to  think  of  nothing  else  but  of  the  ad- 
vantages of  an  eternal  residence  in  it. 

Then  came  a  moment  when  my  self-sufficiency 
revolted  against  the  police-inspection  to  which  my 
"views"  were  incessantly  subjected.  There  was 
a  morning,  in  the  hot-house  at  home,  among  the 
gorgeous  waxen  orchids  which  reminded  my 
Father  of  the  tropics  in  his  youth,  when  my  for- 
bearance or  my  timidity  gave  way.  The  ener- 
vated air,  soaked  with  the  intoxicating  perfumes 
of  all  those  voluptuous  flowers,  may  have  been 
partly  responsible  for  my  outburst.  My  Father 
had  once  more  put  to  me  the  customary  interroga- 
tory.   Was  I  "walking  closely  with  God?"    Was 

349 


FATHER   AND   SON 

my  sense  of  the  efficacy  of  the  Atonement  clear 
and  sound?  Had  the  Holy  Scriptures  still  their 
full  authority  with  me?  My  replies  on  this  occa- 
sion were  violent  and  hysterical.  I  have  no  clear 
recollection  what  it  was  that  I  said, — I  desire  not 
to  recall  the  whimpering  sentences  in  which  I 
begged  to  be  let  alone,  in  which  I  demanded  the 
right  to  think  for  myself,  in  which  I  repudiated 
the  idea  that  my  Father  was  responsible  to  God 
for  my  secret  thoughts  and  my  most  intimate  con- 
victions. 

He  made  no  answer;  I  broke  from  the  odor- 
ous furnace  of  the  conservatory,  and  buried 
my  face  in  the  cold  grass  upon  the  lawn.  My 
visit  to  Devonshire,  already  near  its  close,  was 
hurried  to  an  end.  I  scarcely  arrived  in  London 
before  the  following  letter  furiously  despatched 
in  the  track  of  the  fugitive,  buried  itself  like  an 
arrow  in  my  heart: — 

"When  your  sainted  Mother  died,  she  not  only 
tenderly  committed  you  to  God,  but  left  you 
also  as  a  solemn  charge  to  me,  to  bring  you  up  in 
the  nurture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord.  That 
responsibility  I  have  sought  constantly  to  keep 
before  me:  I  can  truly  aver  that  it  has  been  ever 
before  me — in  my  choice  of  a  housekeeper,  in 
my  choice  of  a  school,  in  my  ordering  of  your 

350 


FATHER   AND   SON 

holidays,  in  my  choice  of  a  second  wife,  in  my 
choice  of  an  occupation  for  you,  in  my  choice  of 
a  residence  for  you;  and  in  multitudes  of  lesser 
things — I  have  sought  to  act  for  you,  not  in  the 
light  of  this  present  world,  but  with  a  view  to 
Eternity. 

"Before  your  childhood  was  past,  there  seemed 
God's  manifest  blessing  on  our  care;  for  you 
seemed  truly  converted  to  Him;  you  confessed, 
in  solemn  baptism,  that  you  had  died  and  had 
been  raised  with  Christ;  and  you  were  received 
with  joy  into  the  bosom  of  the  Church  of  God,  as 
one  alive  from  the  dead. 

"All  this  filled  my  heart  with  thankfulness  and 
joy,  whenever  I  thought  of  you: — how  could  it 
do  otherwise?  And  when  I  left  you  in  London, 
on  that  dreary  winter  evening,  my  heart,  full  of 
sorrowing  love,  found  its  refuge  and  its  resource 
in  this  thought, — that  you  were  one  of  the  lambs 
of  Christ's  flock;  sealed  with  the  Holy  Spirit  as 
His;  renewed  in  heart  to  holiness,  in  the  image 
of  God. 

"For  a  while,  all  appeared  to  go  on  fairly  well: 
we  yearned,  indeed,  to  discover  more  of  heart  in 
your  allusions  to  religious  matters,  but  your  ex- 
pressions towards  us  were  filial  and  affectionate; 
your  conduct,  so  far  as  we  could  see,  was  moral 
and  becoming;  you  mingled  with  the  people  of 

351 


FATHER   AND   SON 

God,  spoke  of  occasional  delight  and  profit  in 
His  ordinances;  and  employed  your  talents  in 
service  to  Him. 

"But  of  late,  and  specially  during  the  past 
year,  there  has  become  manifest  a  rapid  progress 
towards  evil.  (I  must  beg  you  here  to  pause, 
and  again  to  look  to  God  for  grace  to  weigh  what 
I  am  about  to  say;  or  else  wrath  will  rise.) 

"When  you  came  to  us  in  the  summer,  the 
heavy  blow  fell  full  upon  me;  and  I  discovered 
how  very  far  you  had  departed  from  God.  It 
was  not  that  you  had  yielded  to  the  strong  tide 
of  youthful  blood,  and  had  fallen  a  victim  to 
fleshly  lusts;  in  that  case,  however  sad,  your  en- 
lightened conscience  would  have  spoken  loudly, 
and  you  would  have  found  your  way  back  to  the 
blood  which  cleanseth  us  from  all  sin,  to  humble 
confession  and  self-abasement,  to  forgiveness  and 
to  re-communion  with  God.  It  was  not  this;  it 
was  worse.  It  was  that  horrid,  insidious  infi- 
delity, which  had  already  worked  in  your  mind 
and  heart  with  terrible  energy.  Far  worse,  I 
say,  because  this  was  sapping  the  very  founda- 
tions of  faith,  on  which  all  true  godliness,  all  real 
religion,  must  rest. 

"Nothing  seemed  left  to  which  I  could  appeal. 
We  had,  I  found,  no  common  ground.  The  Holy 
Scriptures  had  no  longer  any  authority:  you  had 

352 


FATHER   AND   SON 

taught  yourself  to  evade  their  inspiration.  Any- 
particular  Oracle  of  God  which  pressed  you,  you 
could  easily  explain  away;  even  the  very  char- 
acter of  God  you  weighed  in  your  balance  of 
fallen  reason,  and  fashioned  it  accordingly.  You 
were  thus  sailing  down  the  rapid  tide  of  time 
towards  Eternity,  without  a  single  authoritative 
guide  (having  cast  your  chart  overboard),  except 
what  you  might  fashion  and  forge  on  your  own 
anvil, — except  what  you  might  guess,  in  fact. 

"Do  not  think  I  am  speaking  in  passion,  and 
using  unwarrantable  strength  of  words.  If  the 
written  Word  is  not  absolutely  authoritative, 
what  do  we  know  of  God?  What  more  than  we 
can  infer,  that  is,  guess, — as  the  thoughtful 
heathens  guessed, — Plato,  Socrates,  Cicero, — from 
dim  and  mute  surrounding  phenomena?  What  do 
we  know  of  Eternity?  Of  our  relations  to  God? 
Especially  of  the  relations  of  a  sinner  to  God? 
What  of  reconciliation?  What  of  the  capital 
question — How  can  a  God  of  perfect  spotless 
rectitude  deal  with  me,  a  corrupt  sinner,  who 
have  trampled  on  those  of  His  laws  which  were 
even  written  on  my  conscience?  .  .  . 

"This  dreadful  conduct  of  yours  I  had  intended, 
after  much  prayer,  to  pass  by  in  entire  silence; 
but  your  apparently  sincere  inquiries  after  the 
cause  of  my  sorrow  have  led  me  to  go  to  the  root 

353 


FATHER   AND   SON 

of  the  matter,  and  I  could  not  stop  short  01  the 
development  contained  in  this  letter.  It  is  with 
pain,  not  in  anger,  that  I  send  it ;  hoping  that  you 
may  be  induced  to  review  the  whole  course,  of 
which  this  is  only  a  stage,  before  God.  If  this 
grace  were  granted  to  you,  oh!  how  joyfully 
should  I  bury  all  the  past,  and  again  have  sweet 
and  tender  fellowship  with  my  beloved  Son,  as 
of  old." 

The  reader  who  has  done  me  the  favour  to 
follow  this  record  of  the  clash  of  two  tempera- 
ments will  not  fail  to  perceive  the  crowning  im- 
portance of  the  letter  from  which  I  have  just  made 
a  long  quotation.  It  sums  up,  with  the  closest 
logic,  the  whole  history  of  the  situation,  and  I 
may  leave  it  to  form  the  epigraph  of  this  little 
book. 

All  that  I  need  further  say  is  to  point  out  that 
when  such  defiance  is  offered  to  the  intelligence 
of  a  thoughtful  and  honest  young  man  with  the 
normal  impulses  of  his  twenty-one  years,  there 
are  but  two  alternatives.  Either  he  must  cease 
to  think  for  himself;  or  his  individualism  must 
be  instantly  confirmed,  and  the  necessity  of  re- 
ligious independence  must  be  emphasised. 

No  compromise,  it  is  seen,  was  offered;  no 
proposal  of  a  truce  would  have  been  acceptable. 

354 


FATHER   AND   SON 

It  was  a  case  of  " Everything  or  Nothing";  and 
thus  desperately  challenged,  the  young  man's 
conscience  threw  off  once  for  all  the  yoke  of  his 
"dedication,"  and,  as  respectfully  as  he  could, 
without  parade  or  remonstrance,  he  took  a  human 
being's  privilege  to  fashion  his  inner  life  for  him- 
self. 


355 


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